#it's leaving me feeling bone-achingly alone

[ruler-of-turtle-kind]

Okay, that's enough Magnus Archives for today.

#tma reactions #episode 144 #decrypted tma #it's leaving me feeling bone-achingly alone #but I know I'm not alone #but I feel like I am #and the argument between logic and emotion just goes round and round in my head #and I feel like I’m drowning in a whirlpool of anxiety #just round and round and round #and the overactive part of my imagination wants to use this as basis to convince me this stuff is real #but it's not real #it's fiction #why can't i have a normal brain #one that doesn't try to lie to me #maybe I need to put MAG down for a few weeks again #no. no I'll be fine. I just need to keep doing this. Keep reasoning it out #when you have a brain that lies to you you need to practice arguing with it #that way it gets easier to dismiss the lies #it's good I'm in a safe environment to do so with something that is clearly fiction. #frick I'm delusional aren't I? #why God did you deal me this hand? what purpose does it serve?

[updownlately]

i like it when you hug me (‘cause i kind of feel you love me)

| leah williamson x reader | trigger warning for mentions of depression and self-loathing. please read at your own discretion!

~~~

“Hey…”

The voice echoing through the room had you burrowing yourself impossibly deeper into your comforter, nearly hiding your face beneath the blanket- the light peeking in from the hallway very much unwelcome in the dark room. 

Shaking your head, you let out a shaky breath, quickly running your sleeve over your botched face, wiping it in case the quilt was moved away from you.

Stilling your movements, you listened carefully, on alert as Leah’s hesitant footsteps headed closer to the bed- closer to you.

With each subsequent step, you found yourself wishing she hadn’t entered the room at all and the self-aware part of you felt a pang of guilt bloom from your chest, mentally chastising yourself for being so selfish. 

Please don’t care about me. Please just turn and leave.

You swallowed hard as the voices in your head spoke, eyes widening as you felt the bed dip. Curling in on yourself and shuffling backwards, you buried yourself further into the sheets. 

Right now, all you wanted to be was alone. The kind of alone where your phone doesn’t make a sound, even though your ringer’s on blast. The alone where your door doesn’t move, not by a single millimetre, because no one’s coming in but you. The alone where it’s heartbreakingly lonely, achingly so, but you can’t think of a single person to call. You just wanted to be alone. 

Holding your breath as the blonde neared your lumpy form, you waited cautiously for her next move- body on alert, ready to move further back at the slightest of touch.

You weren’t you right now and she most definitely didn’t need to witness that first hand- it was already embarrassing enough that you were hiding out in your shared bedroom all day, avoiding your girlfriend like the bubonic plague.

Lips moving but no sound coming out, you mouthed a silent plea to the universe, begging that she didn’t come closer. You didn’t know how badly you’d break if she did- and you didn’t want to find out.

Unluckily Luckily for you, almost as if your silent prayers were heard, Leah didn’t reach out for you, hand staying firmly put in the space between.

Smiling sadly to yourself, you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at her lack of touch, hand itching to pull her close, devil on your shoulder telling you to push her so far she forgot she was your home.

Taking a silent shuddering breath, pleading for the assault of thoughts in your head to go away, you did your best to be quiet. You tried your hardest not to acknowledge her presence, instead hoping she’d go soon enough. She didn’t need to be around you when you were like this. No one did. No one deserved that. 

Quietly praying she’d leave you be, that she’d make this easy on you, you slowly moved your hand to wipe it on the bottom of your hoodie, hands sweating nervously. 

I’m asleep. You can go. I’m perfectly fine.

The words you wanted to say but couldn’t- the lump in your throat holding you back.

Rather, you waited patiently for her to make a move, one that hopefully got you out of this situation without too many cruel words said, in your mind or elsewhere. 

Unfortunately for you, regardless of the absolute pitch-black darkness in your room, Leah caught the movement, softly speaking when she realised you were most definitely awake. 

“How we feeling about dinner?”

You stayed quiet at her words, hoping she’d convince herself you were asleep and leave.

You let the uncomfortable silence rest in your bones, its familiar presence a comfort.

You didn’t deserve to be taken care of. Especially not after how you’d hidden yourself away in your shared bedroom all day- ignoring Leah, the skipper being nothing if not understanding, letting you be as you pulled away. You didn’t deserve it and your brain did a hell of a job reminding you so. 

Pity’s what brought her here- a clear look at you and she’ll run.

The long silence that accompanied the voice in your head was uncomfortable but you were used to it.

Taking small breaths to not make a sound, you felt your chest tighten with each passing second that she stayed.

I don’t want you here. I don’t want you here. Not for me but because you deserve better.

The words repeated in your head as your heart constricted, tired of you and wanting to be wrapped around your lover’s arms as much as you wanted her to go away. 

It seemed like Leah knew as much, her shuffling closer to you and you could soon tell she was lying on the bed beside you.

“I know you’re awake…”

Her whispered words had your body tensing, any hope that you had of her leaving washing away as your leg vibrated restlessly.

You felt her gently tug on the edge of your quilt and you contemplated resisting, wanting to tuck yourself away in a cocoon but not being able to bring yourself to do so, guilt resting heavy on your shoulders.

Instead you slowly gave in to the skipper’s prodding, wincing as the cool air of the room hit you, reddened eyes and blotchy cheeks making themselves known in the dim light.

Shutting your eyes closed as her face came into view, you tried to shake the image of her pitiful gaze from your mind. 

You deserve better. You deserve better. You deserve better than me. 

The words continued to repeat, an echo in your otherwise silent mind.

You shouldn’t love me. You shouldn’t love me. You shouldn’t love me. You should leave.

Clenching your jaw, you missed the way Leah’s face softened at your clear distress. 

She knew your mental health wasn’t the best, but she never got to witness just how poor it really got- not until now at least.

The way you had sluggishly left your bed nearly two hours after your alarm this morning- how you had hid from her all day, not bothering to have anything more than a few spoonfuls of yogurt for breakfast, completely foregoing lunch, and now, quite possibly dinner. The signs were clear, you weren’t fine.

You weren’t okay, not one bit, but if Leah had anything to say on it, she ached to tell you it was okay. 

It was okay to not be you today, not when she was here, you didn’t have to run and hide. 

But she couldn’t tell you right now, not with the way you barely met her gaze, head tucked in the crook of your elbow, tear-stricken cheeks just barely hidden, body tense.

So instead she placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, moving the arm on your face to the side as her hands travelled to your torso. 

Tugging gently, the blonde pulled you into her embrace, hands coming to wrap around your midsection as you complied, tucking yourself into her side, too tired to protest. 

If words weren’t what you wanted to hear, then she’d speak to you with her touch. 

Continuing her efforts, you let out a small sigh as her hand came to smooth your messy hair, scratching your scalp gently, just how she would when she’d comfort you after a tough loss. 

The ministrations coupled with the faint touch of her rubbing circles on your back, and you could feel your body relax, gears in your mind beginning to slow as your hands shyly made their way to grab fistfuls of her hoodie, not wanting the comfort to leave- not wanting her to leave.

Surprised at the Englishwoman’s actions, you burrowed your face into the crook of her neck as you felt the knot around your heart loosen just a tad bit, a grateful breath escaping you.

You sunk into her grasp as you ignored the dying voices yelling in your head, your weight rest wholly on top of the midfielder's body, back muscles going slack as you let her warmth break through the iciness plaguing you.

Thank you for staying, for being patient, for caring.

The words went unspoken whilst you waited as the rock in your throat to slowly shrink.

And as a minute passed and then two, her grasp on you only getting stronger, more assuring, you couldn't help be grateful.

All your unsaid words from earlier finally had the chance to be spoken now, chest light, speech coming easy. 

Letting yourself snuggle into Leah’s hold, feeling her place a soft kiss on your crown, you finally had a breath of comfort, nearly crying in relief.

Though the voices in your head didn’t quite disappear, she made living a bit easier, the simple act of breathing no longer a chore.

It’s why your murmured words finally came easy, heart floating, your grip tightening in adoration.

“I love you.”

#fuck it not proofread #based on the song half hearted by we three #s/o to the one person from the poll that listens to we three! :D #leah williamson x reader #leah williamson imagine #leah williamson #woso one shot #woso fanfics #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso #woso community #my writing #blurb #iliwyhm #hurt/comfort

[astarionsilverbough]

“Darling.”

And it’s Different, when it’s for him.

Because, you see - Astarion calls everyone ‘darling.’ Even Shadowheart (though for a while that one is a bit… cruel).

And everyone gets a different version of the word, of course - and variations of it for different circumstances and events. So far, Gale has the most variations of the term - Halsin’s kept count. They range from affectionate and fond to absolutely poisonous and sometimes dangerous. There are, by Halsin’s count, thirteen versions of ‘darling,’ for Gale (who, again, is Astarion’s best and most steadfast friend - though Astarion would wrinkle his nose at the term).

But when it comes to him?

When it comes to him, there are three. Three variations of ‘darling’ that no one else - not even Gale - gets.

1.) Utterly and absolutely… soft. Oh, but it’s so soft. Often it’s used only in private - in moments when Astarion can cup his jaw or slide into his lap and murmur it against his lips. Halsin can think of two times Astarion has used that ‘darling’ in front of everyone else: the first?

When they (‘they’ being Astarion, Gale, Shadowheart, Lae’zel and Wyll) had found Halsin broken and alone in the Underdark after he’d carved through the goblins alone.

It was the first time the two elves had seen each other in two hundred years and five months. Through the haze of drow poison and blood loss, Halsin had heard the sun.

“Halsin. Darling.”

Achingly soft and so beautiful. A calloused but gentle hand cupped his chin and Astarion - older and more magnificent than Halsin remembered - had swum into focus above him.

Oh, but how he’d fallen in love with the man all over again in that moment… The thrill of it had been just as intense as it had been the first time, when they were younger and more afraid.

That was the first time he’d ever heard the soft variation of ‘darling’. Two hundred years and five months after the last time he’d seen Astarion Ancunín, who was more magnificent than he remembered but smelled exactly the same and could outburn the sun.

The second had been -

“I have to do this alone, Astarion.”

The darkness was like ash clinging to his skin. Karlach had been throwing stones into the abyssal waters; Gale was pointedly trying not to listen while Shadowheart was watching them like a vulture about to clean a carcass.

And oh, how he’d been terrified. To wander the Shadowfell, nothing to go on but a glimmer of vengeful hope and the scent of lavender… would he ever see the sun again?

Would he forget what gold sounded like?

But then -

Astarion’s plush lips part and his brow creases, brilliant sunset eyes big and glistening. For a moment, Halsin expects - well. Nothing good, that’s for certain.

A foolish thing, to try and predict the heat of the sun.

A nimble hand slides over his chest and catches his chin. The next thing he knows, he’s being kissed with tongue and fang. Solar flares explode in his lungs and Astarion thumbs over his cheek.

“Come back to me, darling,” he says.

It is a command, gentle and easy. Soft in the way that inspires hope somewhere inside his bones.

Not a hint of worry. Trust him - he knows what the worried variant of ‘darling’ sounds like.

Speaking of which:

2.) Astarion trusts Halsin in a way he isn’t sure how to hold; he feels a bit like a child cradling a bird with a wounded wing in his palms. One wrong move and that wing could shatter and leave the little bird he seeks to protect incapable of flight.

He doesn’t use the worried variant of ‘darling’ when Halsin is about to or has already attempted something foolish or heroic (see: ‘darling’ variant no. 1).

Astarion’s concerned and slightly lilting “darling,” comes when they’re in situations and he needs Halsin to look exactly where he’s looking at that very moment. It is a precise and hard-learned code, one that Halsin is more tuned into than even the method by which nature forms the reality around them.

It starts immediately: they’re in the Underdark and Halsin is still aching from the effects of the drow poison and the blood loss, and he can feel Astarion’s presence like sunbeams on his skin.

But even as he’s so acutely focused on Astarion’s presence, he’s still aching from the effects of drow poison and the blood loss, and so when Astarion’s sharp and tense “darling,” comes, he looks around just a little too late.

The Spectator catches them by surprise. Somehow, they survive the fight.

Halsin is looking at Astarion with every snapping “darling” he utters, now.

But even as the worried variant of ‘darling’ is the command he exists by and the soft variant is the one that sends heat through his bones and burns them gold, the variant of ‘darling’ that Halsin adores the most is -

3.) Sheer, raw fury.

It has only been used with such enchantment once. So far, at least. Who knows what the rest of the eternity he intends to spend beside the moon-kissed elf will bring, but so far…

So far it’s just been -

“Be well, then, darling.”

And oh, the way it had seared across Halsin like a lash of flame! How it had made his soul twist and his heart stop, commanded still by the sheer weight of the viscerally vitriolic venom in the word.

There was to be no doubt, then. A mate he was, and a mate he would always be. Some part of Halsin was snatched away in that moment. It fused with Astarion’s shadow, and there it would stay until he was led back to the young elfling.

The compass to lead him home.

Because this variant of ‘darling’ - this horrible, wrenching barb of a thing - had been shot at Halsin after he had told a twenty-year-old Astarion that:

“I cannot give you what you seek,” after a quiet and heartbreaking:

“I love you. I’m - Halsin, I’m… in love with you.”

And he’s over a hundred and Astarion is twenty and even if he’s everything Halsin wants, it’s not time. Not yet. The seasons need more time to show Astarion what the world can offer. He needs to taste the fruits of many before he settles on his favorite.

So:

“Oh, my little star,” Halsin had said in elvish; “I cannot give you what you seek.”

It was like watching the winter freeze settle in. It was seeing the sea go black before a storm; it was the flicker of divinity in the pit of Halsin’s belly and the hunt at the height of the season. It was every perfect and horrible thing all at once and Halsin loved this creature more than the earth beneath his feet.

“You are so young - there is so much you’ve yet to witness, experience.” He’d taken one of Astarion’s hands. It had been limp, cold. He’d kissed it anyway and stepped back. “And I must go my own way for now. Don’t worry. You’ll see me again, little star.”

And it was silent then, the kind of silent that made Halsin’s skin pebble with gooseflesh.

Until:

“Be well, then, darling.”

A dismissal. Inelegant and so wrathful. A blessing lain on the path beneath his boots. The sun blazed so hot it carved itself into his soul and stole a piece of him away.

It has not rejoined him. That’s alright; he feels it whenever Astarion is near, and these days it’s rare when he isn’t. Halsin is his sword and shield, the crown on his head and the throne beneath him.

And when the word comes this time - “darling,” - it’s just for him, spoken against the shell of Halsin’s ear as a damp, fresh-from-the-bath Astarion settles over his thighs and slides his arms around Halsin’s neck. Heat lunges up Halsin’s spine and he frames Astarion’s slender waist with keeping hands. So lost in the taste of the man’s skin, Halsin barely notices he’s been talking at him until Astarion gently tugs at his hair.

“Halsin, darling.”

His ears perk up. That’s a new one - slightly exasperated, clipped and somewhat offended in a small, quiet way. A vulnerable way.

“Were you even listening to a thing I said?”

Stomach clenching, Halsin slides his keeping hands over Astarion’s flanks and scans his face. He’s pouting. This is a new face, a new variant. Halsin’s nerves align and he cups Astarion’s chin.

“Forgive me,” he says soberly. “I was lost in thought. Tell me what I missed - speak to me, lover.”

He jostles Astarion a bit and the elf’s expression softens just before he arches a brow and tips back with a shrewd, playful glare. Halsin keeps him supported with a big hand at the base of his spine and chases a hopeless kiss he doesn’t get on a whim.

“And what, pray tell, was so important it stole you away from me?” Astarion demands, fingertips guarding Halsin’s lips.

Halsin smiles against his touch. “You.”

And when Astarion’s expression changes, it makes Halsin feel like spring. Those sunset eyes go dewy and Astarion’s body melts against the strong plain of his own.

“You,” he mutters against Halsin’s lips, “are a menace, darling.”

And he’ll never tire of it - never tire of learning every cadence this man can shape. Maybe one day he’ll earn more variants than Gale - for now, he’ll settle on keeping the Different ones, the ones no one else gets to hold.

There is no greater honor.

#halstarion #astarion #halsin #baldur’s gate 3 #the land of gods and monsters verse #rambles #my fic #ficlet #the verse where Halsin and Astarion knew each other Before #I typed this on my phone and I’m so high #I got so focused

[seiya-starsniper]

For the angst prompt list: “I’m sorry, have we met?”

Oh I absolutely ADORE this particular prompt, I'm so glad you've picked it. I'd previously done a fill for it [here], but this one's an entirely different premise all on its own, I hope you enjoy it!

angst prompts list

cw: memory loss -----

The man standing across the bar is dangerous.

Rob’s gained an appreciation for dangerous creatures, ever since he woke up in the middle of what was effectively the aftermath of a bloodbath, with no memory of who he was or how he got there. All he knew was that something bad had happened, and somehow, he’d survived it.

He’d fled London shortly after, when he’d discovered that while he didn’t know who he was, it seemed other more powerful and dangerous creatures did. Rob realized fairly quickly that if he had any hope of living a normal life, leaving the continent was probably the best course of action. He’d barely had time to investigate the life he’d had beforehand, only knowing that his captors had tracked him down under the name Robert Goldsmith.

That had been over 20 years ago. Rob hasn’t aged a day since then, and he’s also unfortunately never been able to fully shake attracting the supernatural. There’s something about him, the demons and the fae and the vampires tell him. Something old, something covetous. Rob knew he was older than he looked, he could feel his age in his bones, and one too many close calls with death all but proved he was some sort of immortal.

And now he’s caught the scent of something even older than him. The man (no, he’s not a man, he only wears the skin of a man) is stunningly beautiful, with wild dark hair and eyes bluer than the sky. If Rob didn’t know any better, he’d swear the man was an elf or some other type of fae, but no. He’s older than that. More powerful than that.

An angel, perhaps? He’s certainly beautiful enough to be one. Rob’s only heard rumors of their existence, but he’s also heard looking upon them would burn your eyeballs right out of their sockets. He tries not to appear wary and guarded as the creature locks eyes with him, but he can’t help but let out a small gasp, heart thundering in his chest, as the man-shaped being begins to approach his table. 

“Hob Gadling,” the creature addresses him. “I have been searching for you.”

The declaration hit Rob like a hammer to the face. Something inside him is howling, yes, that is me, I am Hob, and it’s almost as terrifying a feeling as when he first woke up in that bloodied basement, his memories wiped clean from his mind. Somehow this creature knows him, not in the way the others have known of him, but actually knows who he was before his memories were stolen.

“I’m sorry,” Rob (no, not Rob, he is Hob) says, trying hard to keep his voice as light as possible, even as he feels his entire world shift sideways. “Have we met before?”

The creature rears back as if Hob had slapped him across the face. His pained expression grips something in Hob’s heart, something old, something achingly familiar. Hob knows then, in this exact moment, that this creature is something precious to him. A companion. A friend. His heart yearns to reach out this beautiful being, to touch, to hold, anything to reassure him that finally, he is no longer alone in this world.

But then the man’s eyes narrow, pain now replaced by unmistakable fury, and it is Hob who rears back now, a deep seated fear he knows but does not remember rising to the surface. 

“A memory demon has taken your mind,” the man growls, his voice suddenly octaves deeper than it had been when he had first greeted Hob. He stands suddenly, and moves to leave the bar.

Absolute terror grips Hob then, and he shouts, “Wait, don’t leave!” before getting up himself to chase the man.

The stranger (his Stranger?) is fast, but Hob manages to catch him just outside the door. He grips the other man’s arm tightly, hoping and praying that somehow he won’t disappear in a puff of smoke.

“Please don’t leave me again,” Hob begs. Again? Hob thinks to himself. Has the stranger left him before?

The man’s expression softens instantly.

“Had my hubris not gotten the better of me,” the Stranger says, all righteous fury gone from his voice, “I would not have allowed this to happen. My imprisonment has taken far more from me than I ever feared.”

Imprisonment?

“You were captured?” Hob breathes, shocked.

“I was,” the Stranger replies. “I did not miss our appointment in 1989 intentionally.”

“I wish I knew what you were talking about,” Hob says, practically in hysterics. “Will you tell me? Everything I’m missing? I…I haven’t been back to London since…”

“I had planned,” the Stranger interrupts him, “to seek the demon who stole your mind.”

“I’ve been without my memories for 20 years now,” Hob replies. “I can go on for a few more days. Just. Stay. Please.”

Something in his tone must appeal to the Stranger, because he sighs and then nods his agreement. 

“Have you a place where we may speak in private?” he asks, and Hob nods. 

“Not too far of a walk from here,” Hob replies, before he realizes he still has a death grip on the Stranger’s arm. He releases it, slowly, still not totally convinced the other won’t disappear if he lets go. When he does not, Hob jerks his head in the direction of his apartment, and then they begin to walk. 

“I guess we could start with names then?” Hob asks. “You, uh, you seemed to know mine. My true name anyways. I’m sorry that I’ve forgotten yours.”

The stranger huffs, and shakes his head, as if recalling a particularly humorous memory. Hob wonders if he’ll hear what it is in their talk tonight.

 “My name,” the man says, voice lowered to almost a purr, “is Dream.”

#dreamling #dream x hob #the sandman #sandman fanfiction #seiya writes #seiya drabbles #this was so much fun to write #thanks for the request! <3 #seiya writes dreamling

[amourtoken]

Slut thoughts slut thoughts slut thoughts goddddddd

More toxic mentor Ruffilo x apprentice reader thoughts? This one's a little shorter but I'm planning to add to it as more thoughts appear.

*NSFW below the cut, MDNI*

cw: Age gaps (legal, but possibly controversial? They're mentioned.), toxic Nicky, branding, exhibitionism, glove kink ig, he's a dick, raw sex (wrap it up bitch), oral (m receiving), love/hate (it's rlly love/love but shhhh that's a secret), Noah is here! (Nick is a cunt), degradation, dacryphilia, pining

♡ Nicholas loves that he's got a few years on you, it really accentuates the whole mentor/apprentice relationship and he always pulls the "I'm older than you so I know what's good for you" card when you whine about things

♡ now that you've apprenticed under him a few months and he's got you melded into the perfect little cock sleeve, he's gotten a bit sloppy. Leaving hickeys just above where your shirt could cover and being just a little too touchy around the other shop guys.

♡ this normally wouldn't cause issues around anyone else however need I remind you your literal father is his boss and would skin him if he found out he so much as laid a finger on you in his dreams. That being said, Nicky didn't double check the schedule before deciding he was gonna have you on your knees. Who walks in unannounced? His boss.

♡ Luckily Nicholas' desk faced in such a way you couldn't see anything underneath unless you were literally in his chair, which spared you for the moment. To keep you quiet he used the hand buried in your hair to push your head entirely down between his legs, his cock filling your throat and making your eyes water pathetically. At this point he wasn't even truly doing it to keep you quiet or keep you hidden, he was doing it for his own enjoyment. Once his painfully long conversation ended and the room was clear, he pulled you off his cock and laughed at how messy you looked. (Asshole!!!! I fucking need to fuck him so bad hate him!!!)

♡ he made you get a tattoo of his initials after your "6 month anniversary" of being his apprentice. He said he wanted to brand you so everyone knows who trained you so well (this mf is not talking abt the tattooing I promise lmao). So now you have a pretty "NR" on your hip bone just barely low enough to be covered up by your clothing. He gets achingly hard whenever he remembers it's there.

♡ he claims you get on his nerves and swears up and down that he's definitely fucking other people cause he could "never date a random college airhead" (he's not, it's a lie, don't believe him lol) when he's talking to the other guys at the shop but if any of them so much as look at you in passing he has to actively restrain himself from jumping down their throat.

♡ speaking of this possessiveness, Nicholas ended up staying late at the shop one evening conveniently at the same time the new piercer Noah was there. Noah thought you were fucking gorgeous and had full intentions on asking if you had any plans this weekend so that you two could maybe hang out, unfortunately this plan was canceled cause Nicholas had you laid back on his tattoo chair split on his cock. He knew you two weren't alone, and made zero effort to keep you quiet, in fact he was encouraging the noise.

"Louder, can't fuckin' hear you- tell me how good this dick makes you feel"

"Bet I've ruined you for everybody else."

"Awe, are you crying? So fuckin' needy you're really crying for some cock?"

♡ afterwards he walked past Noah like literally nothing had happened even though minutes before he had you making sounds anyone else would've called 911 over. Safe to say poor thing didn't get his date.

♡ Nicholas loves playing with you while he's wearing his black latex gloves, he thinks you look pretty when his gloved fingers are forced down your throat and he's basically trained you to find them arousing cause he does it so often. He'll squish your cheeks in one hand before telling you to open your mouth so you can suck his fingers like you would his dick. (He literally stares at you like you hung the moon during this but God forbid he says he CARES ABOUT YOU)

#nicholas ruffilo #Nicholas ruffilo smut #GodddDSDD

[xhanisai]

TEACHERS AU FIC

AO3

Pairing - Adrinette

Prompt - Teachers AU (please click on link for short context of AU)

Summary -

"Y-You said that twice. The last one." She couldn't look away from his hypnotizing eyes, completely submerged by his spell and she wanted nothing more but to stay like that forever if she could have it her way.

"I did, didn't I? Speaking of kissing..."

Oh no.

'Please don't say it. Please don't say it. PleaseDon'tSayIt-' Unfortunately for Marinette, luck often deserts her side when she isn't decked up as Ladybug and today was no exception.

"Yesterday night, just before you finally went to bed, you kissed me." Ah, SHIT.

"We kiss all the ti-iiiime, Chaton-"

"On the lips."

~(x)~

.

.

.

"Madame. Dupain-Cheng! Please be careful!" Cried one of her students as Marinette raised herself to her tippy-toes on the ladder, trying to reach for the items on the high shelf that was required for today's lesson. She took the time to flash an encouraging smile at her worried students, hoping that it will soothe their anxiousness before turning back and continuing to reach closer and closer (whilst simultaneously cursing her tiny, barely five-foot-something frame despite being in her early twenties). The special box of expensive paints that she bought with her hard-earned money just for her beloved students alone was scarcely grazed by her wiggling fingertips and just as she managed to successfully grab it-

SKKKKKKKKKKKKKRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!

'SHIT!!!'

The agonisingly painful feeling of her ankle twisting against the direction of her bone was what she registered first before the sound and movement of the ladder tipping towards the ground, the heroine in disguise was barely able to catch her breath as she found herself plummeting downwards at high speeds without even given a chance to even brace herself or cover her head-

"MARINETTE!" Her entire body quaked almost painfully as she landed in a pair of strong, familiar arms and all the air was knocked out of her chest when the impact sent them both crashing onto the floor with the man ensuring that he took the brunt of the force, cradling her head with one hand and wrapping the other securely around her torso. The ladder slammed down hard literally millimetres away from her saviour's head, leaving behind a deafening sound against the hard, marble floor and causing everyone in the vicinity to flinch by instinct. A stunned silence was next to spread across the classroom and the only thing that Marinette could focus on was catching her breath and the feel of her hero's heartbeat battering his chest. "Thank you for bringing me here on time, Lola," Adrien finally murmured, sending a relieved look to the student who was responsible for bringing him here in the first place, her gut feelings having had feared the worst the second her teacher began to climb up the steps of the ladder which therefore made her act as a precaution. "Ma Princesse? Are you okay?" His voice grew incredibly soft and concerned when he sat them both up, cradling her face with both his hands tenderly as his scared emerald greens scanned her entire body for any injuries or discomfort; her stylishly loose clothing made it quite hard to make out anything much to his slight annoyance but he had some semblance of level-headedness to not tear off her shirt to check thoroughly (last time he did that after a really brutal Akuma battle, she almost bit his faux belt tail off in pure rage because it was her favourite blouse that she made from scratch that he shredded into pieces and because of that, she didn't even talk to him for an entire three hours). "You're not hurt are you? Can you move your limbs? Is your vision okay? Can you hear me? Marinette-"

"I...I'm fine!" She managed to squeak out but then a burning, harsh pain followed and her ankle throbbed achingly in a manner that felt like knives digging into the marrow of her bones. Marinette was too slow in hiding her grimace and the second that her partner spotted the expression, he narrowed his eyes in suspicion and clenched his jaw. "I really am okay, Adrien! You can put me down, hahah! Look- your students need you. I can see at least six of them spying through the door, wondering where you've gone." "Monsieur. Agreste! I saw Madame's ankle twist on the ladder when she fell! She's definitely hurt." Another student quipped, challenging his teacher's pouty look of betrayal with a defiant tongue sticking out of his lips. "Please make sure she stays in the nurse's room too! Last time she escaped after having that horrible dizzy spell and tried to teach us with her head on the desk!" "Sam! You're just trying to get out of the quiz I prepared for you all to take- WHOA!" Not able to finish her light scolding at her shit-eating, grinning student, Marinette found herself easily scooped up by Adrien, bridal style and her entire face went as red as her alter ego's suit. The love of her life simply frowned at her, displeased with the fact that she foolishly attempted to hide her injuries from him, again. And that she wasn't being careful. Again. "I'm taking you to the nurse's office. No argument." He ignored the way she pouted even further and crossed her arms childishly, turning to her smirking class and paying no mind to their excited murmurs. "Please make your way to my classroom and complete the assignments that Madame. Dupain-Cheng has given you. Single file, no running or loud chattering in the corridors, please. Thank you all for your maturity and for trying your best to look after your teacher."

  "Sure! Please look after Madame. Princesse for us, Monsieur!" If students were to spread gossip about how bright red Adrien's ears turned when he fast-walked out of the room, he can just claim that it was the weather. Even if it always only turned red whenever he was flustered or embarrassed. ~(x)~ "One of these days, My Lady...one of these days, you're going to give me a heart attack with how easily you find yourself in such dangerous situations as a civilian alone. I can't even count on both hands on how many close calls we've had this morning alone with you getting hurt or worse!" If he was decked up in his suit of destruction, his faux feline ears would have been plastered themselves against his soft, golden hair (which was now quite dishevelled thanks to the number of times he's run his fingers through them anxiously). "Do I need to actually take my class' silly suggestion and wrap you up in some bubble wrap so that you can actually be safe for longer than five minutes?!" He was holding both her hands now, pressing them against his throbbing chest all whilst his eyes held a frenzied spiral that could rival Marinette's whenever something didn't go according to plan. Luckily, she knew very well how to alleviate her Chaton's worries, slipping one hand out of his protective grasp and placing it on his jaw sweetly which prompted his tense shoulders to soften. "Now, that's a bit too extreme, isn't it?" She smiled, all traces of her previous annoyance completely gone as she relaxed against the pillow on the bed she was placed upon. Marinette gave his cheek a soft squeeze and it took her everything to not let out the kettle-like squeal that wanted to seep out of her mouth when Adrien pressed a loving peck against the palm of her hand.

"If it'll stop accidents like this from happening again, I will do it." The gleam in his emeralds had Marinette swallowing harshly because dammit, all it did was set fire to her trembling heart and it took all the restraints she had in her entire lifetime to not beg her partner to ravish her senselessly. She felt like a young teenager from the way the overwhelming emotions crashed and fought against one another in her veins but the ever so slightly calmer, more mature side of herself, helped her stay grounded. Even if said mature side was like a thin, weak dam that was ready to give out to the torrent of flustered feelings that wanted to rush out so badly (why can't she just be cool and collected and easily normal for once in front of her partner!?). "Since you're always here to catch me or save me on time, I don't think such precautions are necessary, hm?" Little did Marinette know that her soft, warm tone was doing nothing but causing her partner to internally explode with gooey lovesickness, testing his own restraints from getting down on one knee and begging for her to become his wife (for real!!!). He opted to quietly cough into one fist instead whilst averting his gaze for a flicker of a second. "...That may be true." He then leaned in closer, his brows furrowed once more. "But can you at least try to be more careful? Please? I hate it when you get hurt or when you're in any sort of pain." The watery, kitten eyes were back and Marinette couldn't even comprehend how a hot, stupidly good-looking, grown man like him can also be so fucking adorable. Neither of the duo paid any mind to Plagg's scoffs and off-handed remarks as he lounged lazily on the nearby desk, practically draping himself over Tikki whose quiet giggles were like quaint windchimes. "Of course, Adrien. I don't like getting hurt either, hahah!" She flicked his nose endearingly, her eyes crinkled with laughter and her bow-shaped lips a beautiful smile that never ceased to steal his breath away. "Hopefully this isn't just a ploy to avoid having to save the city as Mister Bug again by yourself~" She teased, delighted with the way he squawked in protest and the way his kissable mouth drooped into a dramatic pout. "Kidding~!" 

"You're so cruel." He poked her nose, face still wearing the mock frown and then he leaned in even closer till their noses were a hair away from grazing. "The Parisians will never be at ease if only one-half of their favourite married couple is available to fight the Akumas." His eyes turned devious, knowing he had his Lady trapped with the way she gulped audibly. "But then again...then again, I guess it is a very, very good way to fuel the very popular 'ladynoir baby' rumours that have been going around lately." "I-I-Is that so???" She was turning beet red now, her baby blues finding the little Gods that were lounging a little away from them more interesting than her partner's smug, shit-eating grin. "Purr-fectly so. Another layer to hide our secret identities that will not only fool the public but also Le Papillon too." One of his hands was now resting on her thigh, his eyes hungry for the taste of her lips and something so much more sinful. "I could fan the flames without saying a word. Maybe kiss your stomach in broad daylight...wander around in the baby aisle at the shops in my catsuit...give the Akumas ten times more hell if they dare to even touch you...kiss your stomach..." "Y-You said that twice. The last one." She couldn't look away from his hypnotizing eyes, completely submerged by his spell and she wanted nothing more but to stay like that forever if she could have it her way. "I did, didn't I? Speaking of kissing..." Oh no. 'Please don't say it. Please don't say it. PleaseDon'tSayIt-' Unfortunately for Marinette, luck often deserts her side when she isn't decked up as Ladybug and today was no exception. 

"Yesterday night, just before you finally went to bed, you kissed me." Ah, SHIT.

"We kiss all the ti-iiiime, Chaton-"

"On the lips." As if to emphasise his point, he tapped her own rosy pair with his pointer finger and then proceeded to drag her bottom lip down ever so slightly. His face continued to hold the essence of his devil-like side but the curiosity and raw hope burned brighter in his features, giving her a glimpse of his vulnerable side. "Why did you kiss me, Marinette Dupain-Cheng?"

"W-We've kissed before on the lips too!" "To break each other out of spells and enchantments during Akuma battles, yes. To keep up with the illusion that we're married as Ladybug and Chat Noir to the city, yes." He tapped her lip again. "But this is the first time that Marinette Dupain-Cheng kissed Adrien Agreste on the lips with no prompting and no plans involved. And it wasn't just a quick peck- it was a nice, long, sweet kiss. Why?" He's given her no room to run or to hide both physically and metaphorically. He was merciless despite the way her complexion has bloomed in a shade that was outstandingly red and he was determined to find out the truth right there and then. All she needed to do was to finally confess how madly in love she is with him (how she's been in love with him since the day they first met) and then she'll finally be free of the secret's weight. However, she also has zero experience with even being attracted to someone, let alone falling in love until she met him and the idea of taking such a huge leap of faith from the comfort that's loving him secretly absolutely terrified her. How would he react? What would he say? What if he rejects her? What if this tarnishes the amazing relationship they currently share as both their civilian selves and heroic selves? What if this changes everything she ever knew and loved in the worst ways possible? Marinette just couldn't fathom the idea of losing this amazing, wonderful man who has brought light to her once static world and she would rather hide under a rock for the rest of her life than confess to him just how much he means to her. She was frightened of the unknown and even the sight of his kind, comforting face wasn't enough to give her the courage to speak the truth. .

Little did she know, Adrien was stuck in the exact same boat too- the blond just as bamboozled with how he's fallen so deeply and so preciously in love with his talented, insanely intelligent and breathtaking partner (as if he was born just to love her). Though, with the way she kissed him the other night and held him as if he's the one thing she loves more than life, he was given newly found confidence to actually address it and ask about her intentions behind it. Unlike Marinette who prefers to follow her brain and avoid as many risks as possible, he very much preferred to follow his heart and take on all the risks that are thrown at him if he thought it was worth it towards the end. And loving Marinette Dupain-Cheng is worth everything to him. "That kiss made me really happy, you know. Really, really happy." He added, hoping that it'll give his Princesse the morale to answer (praying to every single omnibenevolent deity out there that he really wasn't just seeing things, that his feelings may actually be mutual all along). The determination that was quick to place itself on her face made his heart skip many beats and when she finally opened her mouth to talk-

"AKUMA ALERT! AKUMA ALERT! PLEASE EVACUATE THE PREMISES OF THIS BUILDING IN A CALM AND SAFE MANNER!

PLEASE EVACUATE THE PREMISES OF THIS BUILDING IN A CALM AND SAFE MANNER!"

The deafening blare of the school's alarm rang through the entire building which was then followed by an explosion and high-pitched screaming, coming from the other side of the architecture. Adrien silently cursed the villain of the day for their terrible timing and he certainly wasn't blind to the relieved sigh his partner let out, his brow twitching with irritation whilst she had the gall to look sheepish.

He was absolutely, definitely, NOT going to let her get away so easily just like that. "Pass me your earrings. You hold onto the ring and Plagg will look after you. You cannot even stand, let alone fight in this battle, Marinette." His tone left no room for argument, the duo quickly exchanged their miraculous and the taller of the two transformed into Mister Bug. He checked the scene outside through the window, his heart lightening with the sight of the Akuma rampaging with a giant paint gun and heading towards the tower (which meant that his partner will be safe and sound in the building as he fights). "You've got this, Chaton." Though her face was still coloured with a sakura hue, the grin she wore was reassuring and her baby blues held an encouraging twinkle on his behalf. She believed in him. "Stay here and stay safe, ma Buguinette." By instinct, he bent down to kiss her head, earning an adorable hum from his delighted partner (and continuing to ignore Plagg's snarky commentary). Before he could leap away with a quip laced with puns and a single swing of the powerful bandalore, Mister Bug was shot with a sudden idea. . "Adrien? What's wrong? Do you need me to join you as Lady Noire after all- mMMMPH!?" Marinette was met with a hot, steamy kiss by none other than the love of her life and all she could do at that moment was flutter her eyes shut and melt and enjoy the delicious sensation like a young teen experiencing her first kiss. His gloved hands cradled her face protectively as his eager lips parted hers over and over again, tracing the rims of her rosy mouth with his greedy tongue, all whilst breathing in her pleasant signs and the spiced vanilla scent that always lingered on her skin. "A-Adrien?" He didn't give her a chance to take another breath as he captured her kiss-bruised lips once more, chasing after her tongue in her mouth and deepening the kiss in a manner that sent dangerously amorous thoughts and feelings through the both of them.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, she was so sweet. Reluctantly, Mister Bug pulled away from the kiss (his mind practically throttling his heart from pressing any more of his impulsive buttons for the sake of Paris and its citizens). The smile he wore was borderline Satanic and the sight of Marinette's dilated eyes, flushed face and bright pink lips only filled him with enough glee to last him at least nine lifetimes. 'Mon Dieu...she looks like se-' He didn't dare to finish off his hormone-riddled thoughts, knowing fully well that if he stayed here for a second longer, he wouldn't be tearing off Marinette's shirt to check for any injuries this time around. "What was that for?" She asked, all whilst looking so freshly kissed and so dazed and just so dreamy. Her eyes sparkled in all the best ways possible and the urge to kiss her all over her face was so strong, the hero had to dig his fingers into the palms of his hands to stop himself from getting so distracted and to focus on his half-baked plan. That's right. "If you tell me why you kissed me, I'll tell you why I kissed you~!" His cocky answer was more than enough to snap the heroine out of her stupor, her face reddening all over again with both embarrassment and exasperation, unable to believe that her stupid, silly partner was now resorting to this level of playfulness to get what he wanted. He didn't let her even splutter out an answer or a retort, pausing by the window with a smile that was downright demonic. "Also, if the Ladyblogger asks me why you weren't present at the battle, I'm going to tell her that you're carrying twins~!" "What!? That's a stupid idea! I don't even look pregnant, let alone with twins! How are we going to explain the lack of a bump to the public if you go around saying stupid things like that!?" She honestly should have expected what he said next after that mind-blowing kiss he gave her. "Then I guess we should start making babies tonight to make it true~" . And then he was gone, leaving behind one bright red-faced Marinette Dupain-Cheng and one cackling little God of Destruction. . . . "Plagg...does this mean that...Adrien likes me...?" . Plagg proceeded to stop laughing. . . . ~(x)~

#my writing #miraculous ladybug #miraculous ladybug and chat noir #teachers au #ml fanfiction #ml fanfics

[sittingbesideyoulikeasilhouette]

Desolate

There is no heterosexual explanation for the many stolen glances between Dean and Cas over the course of 11 seasons, so this piece is me dipping my toes into Destiel territory. This is a season 15 fix-it. This is angsty with mentions of death and mourning. I'm thinking of having this be the set-up for an actual story but I want to see if people are interested!

Pairing: Dean x Cas

TW: death, loss, violence (Dean punches Sammy), grief

If you would like me to continue this please let me know in the comments!!

It happened 7 days after they’d defeated Chuck and Jack was assimilating into his new role. God. Capital G-O-D. His surrogate son was God and even though Dean knew that Jack would make a better god than Chuck ever had, he’d miss him. It seemed like that’s all he was going to be doing for the rest of his life, missing Jack.

Missing Cas.

He fucking hates himself for not saying it back. It would have been so easy; it’s been weighing heavy on his heart for years. I love you too. But what he’d said instead was “Don’t do this, Cas” and he will never be able to forgive himself. The first time he’d almost told Cas he loved him had been years ago, at the crypt, when Naomi was controlling Cas and he’d nearly killed Dean. Beaten, bloodied and on his knees, he’d almost said it. I love you, Cas. But instead, he said “I need you, Cas.” Both were true but Cas didn’t truly understand just how much Dean needed him. He can’t blame anyone but himself, honestly, because how in the hell would Cas know he loved him? He buried his feeling under cheap booze and women, and he always made it clear that he wasn’t gay. Which, truly, Dean didn’t think of himself as gay; sure, he thought some men were attractive, but he’d never had the desire to be with a man the way he did with Cas, he didn’t gravitate around them and let himself be consumed by their orbit. Cas had been it; he was the one that made Dean feel like maybe love didn’t have a gender or an expiration date, but he was too fucking stubborn to let himself have it. He was too scared to love and to be loved. And now it’s too late. He’s alone. Cas is dead.

Sam knew but he didn’t, tried to help you he couldn’t. Sam saw the bags under his eyes and the number of empty, scattered bottles in Dean’s room was excessive, even for him. Sam knew Cas was his best friend and he knew he was mourning him in a way he never had when he died before. His death seemed so final this team that Dean didn’t dare hope that he might be able to come back. Sam tried cheering him up, he really did, hey you want to go for a drive? We can listen to Metallica’s entire discography or hey Meat Man, how about some burgers? had been the last two attempts made by Sammy, one this morning and the other at lunch. Sounds like fun, maybe some other time okay, Sammy? and I’m not hungry, maybe tomorrow? Had been his replies and Sam smiled, nodded, and let him be. So, there he was, wallowing in his bed, when Sam walked in a couple of hours later.

“Hey man, I’m heading out to get some groceries. We’re making burgers tonight.”

Dean was tired, so bone-achingly tired, so he didn’t argue.

“Sounds good, Sammy.”

As Sam was turning to leave Dean called out.

“Don’t forget the beer. Grab 2 packs.”

“No, I’m not grabbing any beer,” Sam said, turning back to look at him.

“Sam, stop, we always drink beer. This is no different.” Dean said sitting up in bed and looking his brother in the eyes.

“This is entirely different, Dean. This situation could not be further from anything we have ever experienced before. You are drinking yourself to death, man. You need to stop.”

“You don’t know what I need, Sam. Go and get the damn groceries and some fucking beer!” Dean yelled and Sam looked hurt, but he wouldn’t budge. Dean got up and walked slowly over to him until he was standing right in front of him.

“Do it or I’ll go myself, Sam.”

“Dean, stop,” Sam pleaded, looking down at him with tears in his eyes, “I know you miss him bu-“ the rest of Sam’s sentence went unfinished as Dean’s right fist connected with Sam’s jaw and he fell backwards out into the hallway.

Dean looks down at his brother and knows he should apologize. Help him get up and apologize, he told himself, but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything except tower over him. The rage felt warranted, and it made him feel alive for a second. Sam got to his feet and stared at his brother; there was no anger in his eyes and that made Dean want to punch him again.

“If punching me makes you feel better, then keep taking swings, Dean,” Sam’s voice didn’t waver, and it held no trace of resentment. Dean was sure Sam would let him beat him bloody if it meant he’d stop drinking and feel anything other than sadness over Cas. Dean considered it, he fucking considered continuing to beat the crap out his brother for no other reason other than he could, Sam told him he could, but there was a deafeningly loud boom and a subsequent clatter coming from the foyer than made them both immediately look down the hallway. Other than the noise, the red lights hadn’t come on and the alarm hadn’t gone off. What the hell was strong enough to break into the bunker without setting any of the warding off? Dean ran into his room, grabbed two guns and knives, and handed a pair to his brother. They walked side by side, eerily quiet, down to the foyer. Sam put a hand on Dean’s chest to stop him just before they turned the corner. Sam pointed to himself then signaled to the foyer in two quick motions. I’ll go first. Dean nodded and mouthed, I’ll cover you. As soon as Sam turned the corner, Dean saw a look of fear written all over his face, but he lowered his weapons anyway. What the hell was Sam looking at? Dean turned the corner behind Sam, gun pointed and knife ready, but the second he laid eyes on him, he felt like all the air had been punched out of his lungs.

“Cas?” Sam whispered and Dean dropped his weapons in a clatter at his feet.

There he was, just as Dean remembered him from a week ago. The only differences were that this Cas wasn’t scared, he wasn’t crying, or making deathbed love declarations. He was standing in front of him and Sam, wearing his trademark trench coat and a slight ever-confused look in his eyes. Dean knew that they should check, throw salt, holy water, silver, and a battery of other tests but what he did instead was shove Sam out of the way and head straight to Cas. Dean threw his arms around Cas’ neck and buried his hands in his hair. He felt Cas hug him back, almost instinctively, but instead of the usual arms around the torso, he placed his hands at Dean’s waist and pulled him closer. They stayed like that for what felt like hours, he could hear Sam sniffling from behind them and it suddenly made him realize he was crying.

“Shh I’m here, Dean, it’s okay. I’m here” he heard Cas whisper in his ear and felt his hands rubbing circles into the small of his back and he wanted nothing more than to stay like this forever.

After a few seconds Dean pulled back slightly, finally looking into Cas’ blues and for a second he thought of all the things hidden in the color – sapphires, the ocean after tempest, the sky after a rainy day, Dean’s favorite toy car that his mom and dad had gifted him on his third birthday and that he still had hidden away in his nightstand – he kept his arms around Cas’ neck but asked the question he knew was also on Sam’s mind.

“How?” he breathed, and Cas smiled. He removed his left hand from Dean’s waist and plunged it into one of the many pockets of his trench coat. He pulled out a small, neatly folded piece of paper. Fighting against the part of his brain urging him to keep holding onto Cas because the universe was cruel and he might disappear if he let go, Dean dropped his arms from Cas’ neck, took the piece of paper, and walked back over to Sam who was looking at him expectantly. Once he was next to him, he held the note in front of them and opened it:

I’m hands off starting now.

- Love, Jack.

#dean winchester x castiel #destiel #dean winchester fanfiction #castiel fanfiction #dean winchester smut #castiel smut #dean winchester fluff #castiel fluff #supernatural #supernatural fic #dean winchester fic #dean x castiel #sam winchester #Sam is the best little brother #jack kline

[unforth]

For the three sentence fic: wangxian or hualian, setting: in a garden!

Ah, thank you for sending a prompt! I might ultimately do both of these but all my Wangxian ideas were sex pollen so instead...

(Hualian, post-canon, fluff)

(definitely not three sentences. unedited.)

"Open your eyes." Hua Cheng's deep voice rumbled so close to Xie Lian's ear that Xie Lian could feel it as a tremble down his spine. For the barest moment, Xie Lian still didn't obey; his other senses were on high alert and even without vision he recognize how unusual this place - wherever it was - must be, for the smell was strong, beautiful, and achingly familiar. Xie Lian couldn't put his finger on what about it he knew, but in his bones, he knew this scent.

Xie Lian opened his eyes.

A field of pristine white flowers and bright spring-green leaves stretched out before them. The light breeze stirred the blossoms as they turned their faces toward the sun. There was an instant when Xie Lian didn't understand the significance of the field, but then the flowers' rich aroma combined with what he saw, and he gasped.

Once, centuries ago, these flowers had carpeted the fields of Xianle every spring.

Once, centuries ago, a small boy had left a single, picked bloom as a modest offering to the flower-crowned god.

Once...

…but…

He didn't know what these blossoms were called; when he'd been crown prince of Xianle, such a small matter had been beneath his interest. And after Xianle fell, these flowers had fallen with the kingdom: Xie Lian hadn't seen a single one.

This flower had died with Xianle.

"How...?" Twisting in Hua Cheng's arms, Xie Lian turned to see his face, meeting Hua Cheng's smug look what I accomplished, gege expression with one of wonder. "Where...?" Thoughts crowded to the fore in Xie Lian, but he could hardly bare to examine most of them, much less express them. "You should be careful gifting me property," Xie Lian finally managed, trying to keep his tone light. "Aren't you afraid I'll set it on fire again?"

Xianle burned in the spring, flames climbing into the sky, smoke obscuring the stars and moon as they engulfed the city, the farms, the fields and forests.

The lovely floral scent turned rancid as the flowers burned.

Trying to suppress a shudder, Xie Lian forced his expression into a smile despite his instinct to grimace.

"Stop," murmured Hua Cheng. Smile and grimace both were subsumed by confusion that Xie Lian expressed with a head tilt. "If they make you unhappy, you can express that. I don't mind."

"No," Xie Lian exclaimed more forcefully than he meant to. Allowing a tremble to course through him, he shook his head and repeated, "no, that's not it. They're beautiful."

"But...?"

"Why aren't you afraid that I'll set them on fire again?" Xie Lian mumbled.

"Because if it burns, it burns." Hua Cheng shrugged. Xie Lian blinked at him. "And after they've burned, I'll plant them again - again and again, every time. As long as a single bulb remains, the flowers can always be regrown."

"San Lang..."

"Isn't that life, gege?" Pulling Xie Lian closer, Hua Cheng wrapped his arms around Xie Lian's waist, tucked his chin onto Xie Lian's shoulder, laid a hand flat and steady and supportive on Xie Lian's belly. "Everything burns. It's what we do after the flames have subsided that shows our character."

"By that measure, I've performed pretty dismally," said Xie Lian with an awkward chuckle.

"By that measure, by any measure, you've survived, you've endured, you've rebuilt and rebuilt over and over again," Hua Cheng countered. "And you've always done it alone. You're amazing, gege. And whatever happens, whatever burns next, I swear to you: you'll never have to sift through the ashes alone ever again."

"Oh, San Lang." Xie Lian turned just enough to smear a kiss over Hua Cheng's cheek. "I love you."

"So much, always." Hua Cheng shifted to meet a second kiss with their lips; warmth and comfort and support glowed through Xie Lian.

A breeze stirred the flowers, their rich aroma filling the air.

If it burns, it burns.

The stalks rustled against each other, making a light, pleasing, soothing sound.

What can't San Lang and I rebuild?

Sunshine dazzled over the field, rendering the white blooms incandescent, the green leaves translucent, their shared embrace hot.

As long as he's by my side, what can't we do?

And together, they bloomed.

(send me an ask with a ship and a setting/trope/kink/genre and I'll write a ficlet that will definitely not be only three sentences but will hopefully be under 1k words)

#unforth writes #tgcf #hualian #i know the flowers are never named in canon but i can't remember if they're ever shown after the fall of xianle #if they are *waves hand* no they weren't #those are not the flowers you're looking for #also i decided they're called 爱花 #even if they weren't originally that is totes what hc will tell xie lian they're called when asked #who'd correct him #it's not like anyone else who remembers xianle was the kind of person to pay attention to what flowers are called #though it WOULD be hilarious if qi rong heard this and was like #*vomit noises* YOU DISGUSTING DOG DUO THEY'RE CALLED FUCKING DAFFODILS #which are apparently called 水仙花 #water fairy flower oh my god i love it #oh and if you want me to write the wangxian sex pollen too I can make that happen just say the word lmao

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Misstep - a Malevolent Fanfic

Hastur comes back from a failed mission in a terrible mood.

Arthur and John playing jazz make it worse.

Written with @sepiabandensis

(Part of the Surrogate series. Takes place after Futile.)

AO3

--------

There is something terrifying about an empty universe.

Matter without life, minimal heat, barely enough vibration to keep it all from drifting to disconnected atoms. There aren’t many places like this. Hastur only knows of six; timelines where the worst thing went wrong, the ultimate thing went sour, and through volition or happenstance, that universe met its end.

These are places Outer Gods did not go. If there is the barest hope, the smallest reason that keeps them away, he has to try to find it.

This particular timeline is… tricky. It was ended by choice, not chance, and it is not empty. That which ate all things still is.

There is some thing which dwells among these stars, vast and dark and desolate. Some thing which follows an unknowable web as it moves from empty world to empty world, seeing everything, seeing nothing.

Some thing that hungers and hunts, some thing that slew and spiraled and shriveled all until the circus that is life went out.

Everyone avoids this universe. This last thing, this final thing, could be neither comprehended nor fought.

But it can also only be in one place at a time, and Hastur is desperate.

It could have left something of value behind.

Hastur is very quiet. As quiet as he can be, investigating dead planets, digging through rubble of ancient life. He eyes an umbrella with disgust (the fuck was even the point of that thing), finding bones buried so deep they’d been compressed, and in spite of his own will and wards, grows achingly and chillingly aware of how alone he is.

There isn’t anything here he can use, after all.

His hopes fade, and his fear for Faroe grows. There is nothing to wield, or solder into armor, or waft like hideous incense to keep Kayne away.

Faroe. He must keep looking. He has five more years. He must not lose hope—though every failed attempt to find some solution grows that fear like wildfire.

He will check other timelines next, but he is done with this one. With relief, Hastur goes to leave.

With shock, he finds he’s not alone.

The some thing that ate it all is tiny, and quiet, and so sudden and so much that he has no chance to comprehend his looming end.

He gasps, and is consumed.

#

Not consumed

Held

Floating

In terror

Let him go, Jon. Can’t you see why he’s here?

I see. I’m hungry.

You still won’t eat me, though.

How, how can there be fondness in a nonplace like this, in an ocean of horror, in—

Never. I will never eat you.

I know. Let him go. He’s here for love. Even I can see that.

All right, all right. For you.

Thank you.

The things I do for you…

And Hastur is spat out.

#

He comes to in his own domain with no memory of crawling there, sprawled in his magic field like a dropped cloak.

He is in absolute shock that he’s alive. Absolute shock that he’s sane. Absolute horror that he was unconscious.

He has never been unconscious.

How the fuck do mortals handle it? It’s terrible. Darkness, being unaware, the incomprehensible loss of memory. It scares him as much as that sea of fear he’d been caught in, like a trap. It was…

Not too different from feeling Kayne’s ire, actually.

Who the fuck had that been in there, anyway? People? Consciousness? In the eaten timeline?

This throws all theories about that timeline into chaos, torquing them into unrecognizable tangles. He has no idea what this means. What the shape even is of this new and tortured knot.

He decides in an instant that he won’t be the one to unravel it.

Maybe he was eaten a little. His torn edges, the places where John was ripped away, feel worse than ever tonight—freshly sore and harried, burned and reddened anew. Hastur is shaky, ill; he feels his incompleteness sharply as he enters his palace late at night.

He needs…

He needs to advance the plan with John. He needs—

(To hold Arthur.)

—to find John and see how the seeds he’s planted fare. He needs to be whole. He needs to spend time with them, whether they’re awake or not, and—

Instead, he finds his Composer and his Piece have not gone to bed, but, inexplicably, they are busy at the keys.

#

The sound that floats from the music room is suspiciously unlike one of his jubilees, unlike any of the smaller compositions his Composer has put together for Faroe, and unlike any music Hastur has ever heard. Piano notes dance in the air, playing back and forth with an enthusiasm that makes him go still and silent to listen.

What was this? It was wild. Enrapturing. Unpredictable. It felt like life.

He’s so engaged that he nearly startles when the piece ends abruptly and chaotically with a run of the piano, and he hears laughter.

John's laughter.

“You’re getting quite good at this!” Arthur says. “I had no idea you’d take to this so well.”

It’s a hidden talent, the Piece says, voice dripping with self-appreciation. Though I had an excellent teacher.

“Oh, stop it,” Arthur says. “I’m serious, though. We’d be one hell of a dueling pianos act, if you had your own body.”

What?

Dueling pianos? The Piece says, questioning. A few notes dance along the piano’s lower register.

“Ah, it’s a type of performance where two pianists work together to improvise a piece,” Arthur says. “One trades off, back and forth, with their partner. Sometimes you wrest control of the melody, others you work together to create something more.”

Heh; like a play-fight for dominance, John purrs. I see.

“I never did one myself,” Arthur says. “The places I frequented only had a single piano.”

The Piece is silent for a moment, leaving Hastur to grapple with this horrific scene.

This isn’t how this is meant to develop. This is not what his Composer is meant to do. This is not how the Piece is meant to act.

…Would we be big, do you think? In Arkham? The Piece says, and Hastur tries to still the rage that rises in him like a tide. No need to lose his temper. This is fixable. He could—

“Arkham?” The Composer laughs. “We’d be big in New York City, John!”

You mean that?

“You’re really bloody good.” Arthur says. “If we were back home, we’d take it by storm. We’d be the greatest piano duo—”

Home.

Duo.

Two.

Them.

Hastur snaps.

He surges into the room like boiling oil, bypassing walls and entering like a landslide, his fury scorching the air with the crackle of barely-restrained magic and the reek of ozone. Arthur reacts instinctually, tumbling over the piano bench and staggering backward as the Piece struggles to describe what is happening in time.

He just appeared, Arthur, and he’s—

Even he doesn’t know what he’s reaching for as he lunges. Tentacles out, power flared, roar rattling the sconces on the walls.

To crush Arthur and hurt him for taking the Piece away.

To crush Arthur and hurt John for being taken away.

To grab them both and not crush but sway and make them love him.

That last thought shocks him so much that he changes direction and smashes the piano instead.

The violence of it is barely satisfying; it’s thin wood, no real substance, lacquer and very little metal, but at least he can snap the piano wires, and that is satisfying, and pulling them between his arms and forcing them to stretch and break gives him something he can feel that is not—

That is not… whatever… that last thought was.

And then all too soon, it’s over, there is no more piano left to smash within reason, and Arthur is huddled against the far wall doing his panicked whimper—the one where he voices every exhale, his arm over his head, resonating absolute terror through the mark on his soul.

Which… is impossible.

Hastur tells himself that he’s the one who reached, that he’s feeling Arthur because Hastur had a rough day, and it was just a subconscious grab for what is his, because Arthur can’t send things through it, so he didn’t, and that’s that, and—

What the fuck is wrong with you? bellows the Piece, and between that and Arthur’s (broadcasted repeated distressing distress), Hastur realizes what he’s done.

He’s just ripped up the plants he spent months tending with his own stupid hands.

There is a moment of precipitous silence.

You fucking asshole, John snarls, left arm gripping Arthur tightly as if it could possibly protect him. You just can’t let us have one fucking thing. One thing that’s not yours.

Arthur is shuddering from the force of John’s yells, now; John still doesn’t understand that of late, his anger hurts.

Calm (Hastur is not calm), he tries to consider the situation.

This plant (to continue the metaphor, because he is fucking calm) sits in his massive hand, roots intact, not yet dead.

He can fix this.

The key to John is Arthur. It’s always Arthur.

And the key to Arthur is always Faroe.

Right. He—the Unspeakable, the Prince of the Great Old Ones, will now foment a plan. “Arthur,” he says, and plays one of his most dangerous gambits. “I’m sorry.”

Sorry? John sounds, if anything, even more offended.

But to get to John, Hastur must focus on Arthur. “Not for this. I am sorry about Faroe.” Hook, line—

“Faroe?” Arthur’s voice is strained as he raises his head above his arm, lured.

—and sinker. “Kayne is going to come for her in five years. Did you not wonder why, at such a crucial time in her formation, I would be gone so often? I am trying to find a way to protect her. I… thought I had found one such means tonight, but it failed. I failed.”

Had he come on too strong? Was it too much? He watches the Piece, watches Arthur.

(Wants to rage and smash and scream.)

(Wants to gather Arthur up like Faroe and hide him completely from sight.)

(Wants to go to war, maybe, though he doesn’t know with whom.)

“You… you were trying to do that?” says Arthur.

He’s a fucking liar, Arthur! The Piece is not on board yet, but that will come soon enough.

“I was trying to do that.” Hastur creates a sound, a sound specifically meant to entice Arthur further: the sound of him taking in a deep, wavering breath. “I am. It is… difficult. Alone, I am attempting a thing that has never been done in all of existence.”

He is damned lucky Arthur is broken. Oh, the man is better, sure; aggravatingly so, some days. But still broken. He still hasn’t really processed everything.

Certainly not Kayne’s words during the mess that started all of this. “He… I thought he was leaving her alone,” says Arthur.

“No,” says Hastur. "She shines too bright. Her safety is not sure."

Arthur is breathing too fast again, but now for different reasons. Hastur knows he’s overwhelmed him; the shock of attack, the risk of danger and adrenaline surge, the grief and horror of the destroyed piano, the fear of harm, all of it—and now, threat against Faroe.

That overwhelmed state is crucial. It’s soft soil, ready for planting. “I will replace your piano,” Hastur says as though struggling to find his pride, to cover it all over. As if he realizes he’s… erred.

(He’s going to have to destroy something tonight. Something bigger than a damned piano.)

(He wants to go after the Piece for daring to think it could be John and Arthur, Arthur and John, off on fucking adventures some day like some… homemaking… human… book series.)

It takes more will than he likes to keep calm.

“Why… why did you… break the piano?” says Arthur.

Damn. He’d been hoping that wouldn’t be asked. All right: truth, weaponized. “Because I ache. I fear for my daughter. And I hurt because I am not whole.” And he abruptly decides he will go for it, and twist the knife even as he replants in fresh soil, never mind mixing metaphors. “And I come here to find you happy and unconcerned, and John happy and unconcerned, and I… I felt…” Abandoned? Too cheesy. Like the only one looking out for Faroe? Too over the top. “Alone.”

John is already bristling. The hell are you talking about? You’re hurting worse? Why?

Now, that was an interesting statement. “You have an artificial system to keep you from fully feeling the loss of yourself. I do not.”

That stuns John briefly silent.

“I…” Hastur pauses (masterfully, he thinks). “I am trying to save my daughter. I understand this is outside your purview. You cannot help me. Not as you are. It is all on me, to find a way to defeat, or defend against, an Outer God. I am…” Like the word hurts: “Sorry. About the piano.” He added that last bit as though trying to cover for something more.

The key to John is Arthur.

And Arthur… has always been a sap for a heartfelt apology.

Arthur is uncurling. His breath wavers still, hitching with the last pulses of adrenaline, but he’s calming, face slowly morphing from the wide-eyed terror to suspicion and, now, to disquietude. He swallows thickly, his Adam's apple bobbing, and Hastur can feel his heart softening.

Such a weak point, that. Even when John hurt him to the point they were hitting each other (quite the show, that had been), Arthur forgave him the moment he apologized. Absurd.

But that growing acceptance feels… very good.

Arthur. The Piece growls. He is full of shit. Listen to me.

“I can… I suppose I can understand, maybe, where you’re coming from,” Arthur says, his voice making a valiant attempt to be firm even in its pathetic (adorable) wavering.

Arthur! A snarl, and Arthur winces. Listen to me!

Oh, ho, a rift? An unexpected benefit. He had to nail the landing on this. “I feel perhaps we have come some way toward understanding one another, at least in regard to… attachment.”

“Love,” Arthur challenges, which is exactly what Hastur hoped he’d do. “The word you mean is love.”

Hastur hesitates magnificently. “If you wish.”

“It’s love.” Arthur can’t quite stand. He’s better, he is, but this was a bad shock, and he feels shaky as hell. “You love her.”

“I do.” No hesitation there.

“I believe you.”

And that, monsters and murderers, is one hell of a step forward.

(Hastur is not calm.)

John is growling now. It’s such a tiny sound, compared to his. What, you’re done? Just like that, you’re done. He fucking smashed the piano, covered you with splinters, and just like that, you’re done?

“John,” Arthur starts.

I don’t believe a syllable of what you just said, John snarls at Hastur now. What are you after here? What are you trying to do?

The Piece thought this whole thing was part of a plan?

Hastur laughs.

He didn’t mean to, but there it is: he’s impressed John with his intelligence and strategizing to the point that John thinks smashing the piano like a lunatic was part of a greater plan.

Hastur!

“No, no, I’m invested now, John—what, exactly, do you think I was trying to accomplish? I lost myself in fear, took it out on an inanimate object, and you happened to be the catalyst. Where is the grand plan in that? Hm?”

John stammers.

“How would you use this situation to your benefit, then?”

“Stop it.” Arthur stands, finally. “Both of you.”

Arthur! You are covered… in… splinters!

Hastur reaches through the mark. It’s true. How odd. Arthur’s distress, he’d felt, but surely, if Hastur had been subconsciously reaching to know what Arthur was feeling, he’d have picked up on the physical pain, as well?

Hastur shakes that thought off. “Let me see.”

Don’t you touch him! John snarls like a child.

“Very mature,” Hastur says, dry, and picks his composer off the ground.

Arthur flinches.

Hastur sighs. “Why are humans so fragile?”

“Fuck if I know,” Arthur quips, a single frond of attitude poking up from the soil.

Well. That was probably a good sign. To someone else. “Be still.” He will use magic to get the wood out.

“Ow. Ow!”

“Be still.”

John smacks a tentacle with his left hand. Be careful!

(He still wants to… to…)

(Maybe not start a war, after all. Hastur feels better.)

(And it is not because he is holding Arthur.)

It should not be peaceful, extracting wood from a human. It should be annoying, mending a thousand tiny wounds as small as the tips of his tentacles.

It is not annoying. It is peaceful. In spite of stupid human skin, which seems to serve very little purpose beyond keeping their organs demurely from view. His hide took no damage, thank you very much.

No one says another word about the ruined piano.

The jazz.

The duo.

But Hastur is thinking it.

John is thinking it.

Arthur… is thinking about Faroe.

Unexpected, this benefit: he’s got them on two different trains of thought, and he could use that… but not now. A plant could only handle being ripped out of the soil so many times before it died.

The plan to be whole is still on track. It is.

It had to be.

“Concert grand next time,” Arthur says.

“What?”

“That was only a medium grand. You’ve been adding more instruments. I need a concert grand to be heard over everybody.”

Hastur sighs. “Very well. The spring rite is in two weeks, anyway. Perhaps it is time for an upgrade.”

“Spring rite?”

“Yes. I have specific requests for that night. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“Faroe’s birthday is in two weeks.”

“The day after the rite. It will not interfere.”

Arthur is tired. “Sure.” He’s worried for Faroe. He hadn’t realized she was in danger now.

Maybe Hastur exaggerated the situation. Maybe it was worth it.

Fucker. You could’ve killed him. John is still fixated on Hastur’s misstep.

“I would not have. I dare not harm him. You would never forgive me.” Except he almost had. If not for the mark’s pull, he would have. What a close call this had been.

I hate you, John mutters, and it is a lie.

“Rinse the blood off. Your piano will be restored tomorrow.”

“Can we…” Arthur hesitates.

“Speak, child.”

“We… we’re doing that again. So you know.”

It’s barely audible.

“Playing your… music?”

“Jazz. Yes. We are.” Barely even a whisper.

Arthur…

No. “I see.” No.

Fuck. Hastur’s not sure where his stab of envy is pointed. At which of them.

John, of course it’s John, it has to be pointed at John—

It’s not. Fuck.

John growls again. Fucker.

He puts them down in Arthur’s room, gently, though despite himself his grip… lingers. “It was good. Your music. You have my permission to continue.”

We don’t NEED your FUCKING permission to MAKE MUSIC TOGETHER!

Arthur winces, hurt by that bellow. He takes a moment to recover, then rests one hand on the tentacle around his waist. “Good.”

And John sees that touch, and can’t feel that touch, and groans like he’s been stabbed.

Arthur does not know why. “John?”

And it feels—

Hastur’s exhale is slow. Measured.

He no longer feels like he has to smash anything tonight.

Fine. I’m fine.

Arthur’s brow knits.

Hastur decides they can work that one out on their own. “Rest well.” He leaves.

Tenses once he’s out of sight.

Curses himself out. Because this should not have happened at all.

He resolves never, ever to go near that particular creepy timeline again.

And he crosses off yet another potential way to protect Faroe from danger.

Thank hell Kayne didn’t care about her now. They still had time. They had time. He could do this.

He will keep her safe.

And he will get John back.

He is going to have it all. It’s just going to take more patience.

---

NOTES

Okay, it's sort of a weird Magnus Archives crossover, but not really?

Hush. My brain did the thing, and I said yes.

#surrogate series #malevolent #malevolent fic #malevolent pod #malevolent podcast #king in yellow malevolent #hastur malevolent #arthur lester #john malevolent

[macarensesangles]

Emetwol Week Day 5: Stars Long Dead

Elpis is heart-achingly beautiful at night. The night sky, familiar yet alien, casts a gently twinkling blanket over the buildings and people, flora and fauna, and it is peaceful and lovely and all so bittersweet it hurts. What is most lovely, although not most peaceful, perhaps, is Emet-Selch.

Earlier that day, Emet-Selch had learned the truth. Emet-Selch had not liked what he had learned; he had accused Pfeil of lying to him and rushed out of the little room in a stormy rage, followed by an overwhelmed Hythlodaeus, and abandoned his tea half-cold on the table. Pfeil had drunk it and cried so hard he nearly vomited, and Venat had had to teach him how to breathe again, lest he lose the proper use of his lungs forever and abandon the procedure of taking breath in favor of perpetual weeping. The tea, he recalls, was not even very good.

The rest of the day had passed in a blur. Now Emet-Selch sits alone in the moonish half-light, reflecting beneath a stout tree, with starlight playing on his hair where it can filter between the shadows cast by thick and healthy leaves. Pfeil watches him unseen, and feels it strange to see him so young, so different and somehow so unchanged. His face moves the way it always had, despite everything. He recalls nothing of Pfeil, refuses to believe what will come, does not respond the way Pfeil hopes he will. Pfeil cannot help but notice the irony.

He is a little afraid to approach. The Emet-Selch of this time is not weighed down with the bitterness of centuries, but he loves Pfeil less — a feat, considering he feels sometimes the real Emet-Selch had not loved him at all — and he is quick to snap mercilessly for the sake of it. There is no joviality in his barbs; the Emet-Selch Pfeil knew had teased, and this one merely spits. Hythlodaeus has insisted on a kinder man buried within, and Pfeil knows in his heart it must be true, but it does not always seem that way, if it ever does. Worse, he has angered Emet-Selch with the truth, a thing that he has learned from cruel experience Emet-Selch cannot stand.

There is a gesture Pfeil does not recognize: Emet-Selch sweeps long hair behind his ear and sighs deeply. His Emet-Selch had worn it too short to do such a thing. He hates that he is making these comparisons, knows Emet-Selch had done it to him with ever-superior Azem, and despite his best efforts begins to weep bodily. Emet-Selch as he is now, twelve thousand years in the past, young and beautiful, realizes he is being watched, and turns to glare at Pfeil. The weeping intensifies; Pfeil feels acutely sick of his body's awful habit of acting against his will.

"Stop crying," Emet-Selch demands simply. "You are distracting me."

Pfeil's legs stumble toward him, although he does not want them to, and he collapses pathetically onto Emet-Selch's lap, tears soaking a little patch in his robes. He is surprised that Emet-Selch does not push him away or strike him, and the thought makes him cry harder.

Without warning or explanation, Emet-Selch's fingers card through his hair. They feel the same as they always had, raw-boned and warm, and he is gentle, focused, does not stroke too fast or too hard. Pfeil cannot for the life of him make the tears stop, can barely breathe or will himself to speak; Emet-Selch is stony and patient, the hand in Pfeil's hair never wavering from its course. He cries for what feels like hours, or a lifetime, or twelve thousand years.

"I loved you," Pfeil admits, when he can breathe again, "and I don't think you loved me."

"That is not true."

"When you died I was so guilty I wanted to kill myself."

"I know." His tone is unwavering, but it is not cold or cruel. "You hardly have to tell me. It was written all over your face."

"I'm sorry," says Pfeil. "I know this isn't fair. You don't remember, and you don't even believe it's true —"

"Be quiet." A beat passes. "Please. Do you stop at nothing to torture yourself?"

He bites his lip. It embarrasses him to be asked such a question by this Emet-Selch, who does not even know him the way his own had. "Sorry."

"Stop apologizing." He ruffles Pfeil's hair a little, and it feels very good. "I detest these sorts of conversations."

Pfeil thinks of their time together in Norvrandt, how often Emet-Selch refused to speak. There is something terribly familiar in the way he favors touch here and now — the words are atrociously unhelpful, but the feeling of Emet-Selch's fingers against his scalp is a balm for his tattered soul. He remembers so much it is difficult to stop, and words rise unbidden from his mouth.

"I told you everything," says Pfeil. "Before my family. About — about everything, and now —"

"Hush." Emet-Selch strokes his hair, and his cheek, and the back of his neck. He rubs circles against Pfeil's shoulder with his thumb and lets the fabric of Pfeil's shirt catch against his hand until Pfeil is sleepy, half-dreaming of a violet dusk and stars over Il Mheg.

#emetwolweek23 #suicide ment

[ltcmdrdax]

POST TRAUMA PROMPTS

PROMPT,   accepting.

a characteristic trait of the trill is their aversion to heat,   and yet jadzia has never felt so uncomfortably,  bone achingly freezing in her life.  she’d almost died,  but the cold sometimes makes her wonder if she’s really alive…  there’s no warmth to be had in the whole of the universe.  and it’s quiet,  it’s so quiet that it’s suffocating,  even at @colnerys​’ voice  —  impassioned over something jadzia hadn’t heard amidst the silence  —  there’s an undeniable feeling of isolation,   “you almost died.”   knees pulled to her chest, gaze focused on the stars outside,  the trill wonders why kira’s pointing it out…  again.  maybe it’s the fact that jadzia hasn’t left her quarters in days,  that she’s refused to answer her door or talk to anyone,  but that’s just vague supposition.  after a moment,  eyes shift to stare blankly at nerys,  a frown on her lips. 

“i know,  i was there,”   there’s not even annoyance coloring the emotionless reminder  —  like her heart had gone with dax,  leaving only the faintest echoes of the passion she’d once embodied.   “there’s no fixing this,  kira.  i’m never going to be myself again.  to be honest with you?  i think i did die…  all i am now is a shell of jadzia dax,  you shouldn’t waste your time on a ghost.”   she’s tired;  she’s so tired,  and yet there’s no rest to be had.  jadzia simply exists,  and maybe she should feel encouraged at the heat that rises with every word,  but she’s not.  she’s not anything really.   “i can’t do my job,  i can hardly remember our relationship,  and i’m so alone.  there were eight other lives that were a part of me,”   each host and dax themselves,  and she misses them all desperately,   “and now they’re gone  —  and i went with them  —  do you have any idea what that feels like?  because i truly doubt that you do,”

#colnerys #∞ ‖ don’t be fooled by a pretty face / writing ⦈ #∞ ‖ talk about losing perspective / answered ⦈ #depression // #isolation // #mental health // #ask to tag // #:)

[candleshopmenace]

words left unsaid [deeds left undone] | day fifteen: new scars

SUMMARY

Mom, he types, then stops. He hasn’t actually spoken to her since he woke up, and for this to be the first contact he makes with her… it feels cowardly, somehow. Like he’s hiding behind a screen so that he doesn’t have to look her in the face.

But, still, there’s a question burning in his lungs that refuses to leave him alone.

Are you proud of me?

He deletes the message and throws his phone across the room.

—

He covers up the mirror the first chance he gets.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[ao3 link]

[discord server]

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Reality comes in flashes, sound mixes with touch, and he can’t move. 

A scream. 

A wail. 

The ground is hard on his back, and there is something in his chest. There is nothing in his chest. His skin is peeled away from his body, exposing his ribs and heart to the smoke-filled air, stinging sharp and burning, and there, in the rain, Bakugou Katsuki stops breathing.

There is nothing but darkness, but even that isn’t solid. Everything is black in a way that isn’t really black, more the absence of anything than anything at all, and there are endless visions and dreams flickering against the walls, making it feel like he’s been sitting in a movie theater for a very long time.

The film reel spins.

He is seven years old and suddenly afraid of storms. He hasn’t ever been afraid of them before, but he is now, maybe because it's his first time actually being stuck outside during one. It's loud and wet and cold, soaking his clothes, the clouds cracking open and pouring down and pasting his hair to his face and making him shake and shiver. 

Thunder cracks overhead, and lightning arcs across the sky, and his mother’s words echo in his ears, Just go, Katsuki. Get the fuck out of my house. 

Surely she hadn’t known that the weather would take a turn for the worst. She would never endanger him on purpose, not like this. 

For lack of a better place to go - Kariage is out of town, and like fuck he’s going to go crawling to Deku’s house - he drags himself to the playground and sits inside one of the slides, a foot or so back from the mouth of the opening. He curls his legs up to his chest and shivers, buries his face in his knees, tries to keep himself warm. 

To a soundtrack of bone-rattling cracks and earth-shattering tremors, he falls asleep.

i miss you, a voice says, achingly familiar. i miss you.

Eventually, he wakes up.

Movie over.

—

He goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth and finds himself staring at his reflection.

He hasn’t looked in a mirror since he woke up in the hospital. It's not that he’d been actively avoiding them, but he had no real desire to see what a mess his face had turned into, what marks his temporary death had left as a permanent reminder. But, for some reason, he can’t tear his eyes away. It's like watching a car crash - you wanted to see the blood, wanted to hear the screams, even though you knew deep down that such desires were sick and twisted and wrong.

The boy in the mirror looks like shit. His skin is pale, save for the long scar that branches down the side of his face, torn and uneven. He has dark circles under his eyes, so deep that they look almost like bruises, and Katsuki finds himself lifting his hand to make sure that the boy in front of him does the same. This is him. 

He shouldn’t be ashamed of it - Todoroki never seemed to have a problem with his scar, and Deku sure as fuck didn’t complain about the state of his arms - but that knowledge doesn’t stop the disgust that swells in his chest. If anything, it just makes it worse. 

This is him. 

This is him.

Katsuki starts shaking so hard that he feels physically sick to his stomach.

He covers up the mirror the first chance he gets.

Mom, he types, then stops. He hasn’t actually spoken to her since he woke up, and for this to be the first contact he makes with her… it feels sleazy, somehow. Cowardly. Like he’s hiding behind a screen so that he doesn’t have to look her in the face.

But, still, there’s a question burning in his lungs that refuses to leave him alone.

Are you proud of me?

He deletes the message and throws his phone across the room.

There is a knock at his door.

Katsuki freezes in the middle of turning a page in his book. It's late afternoon, and, by all rights, he should be hanging out with his friends. But he just can’t bring himself to go downstairs and talk to anyone like nothing has changed, because, in reality, everything has changed. He’s changed. Something fundamental and precious has been snapped deep inside of him and he doesn’t know how to fix it, doesn’t know if it even can be fixed, and it feels… cruel, to pretend that he’s the same person he was at the start of the school year. To fool his friends and classmates into thinking that he’s still him.

There’s another knock.

“... Coming.” Katsuki slides off of his bed and pads across the floor, cautious, wary. He opens the door slower than he normally would, looks at who is standing in the hallway, and sighs. “Hey, kid.”

“Um, hi.” Eri peers up at him, her eyes slowly widening as they scan him from head-to-toe. “I just - I heard that - well -” She fidgets slightly, twisting the strap of her backpack between her fingers. She keeps glancing at his left side, where the sleeve of his shirt hangs empty. “Deku said that you weren’t feeling well and so I - I wanted to see if you…” She takes a deep breath, like she’s steeling herself, and then blurts out, “I made you some cookies!”

… Well.

That’s interesting.

Katsuki stares at her. He doesn’t know how to respond to that. Should he be angry that Deku is spouting his business off to anyone who listens, or should he be touched that a little kid that he’s barely even spoken to is worried enough to bake him treats? 

He must take too long to answer, because Eri flushes red to the tips of her ears and ducks her head. She mumbles, “But it's okay if you don’t want them.”

“No,” Katsuki says before he can stop himself, before she can leave. Angry at the world as he is, he’s not yet bitter enough to make his teacher’s daughter upset by turning down a gift. “That’s not what I meant.”

She looks back up at him, beaming. “So you want them?”

Ah, Hell.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sure.”

Grinning, she swings her backpack off her shoulders and puts it down at her feet, unzipping it. She pushes aside papers and folders until she comes up with a bento box wrapped in cat-patterned fabric. She holds it out to him proudly. “They’re sugar cookies,” she says, practically bouncing in place with excitement. “I put sprinkles on them!” Then, almost as an afterthought, she adds, “And my dad helped, I guess.”

Which meant that Aizawa-sensei probably did everything, then let Eri decorate them before he put them in the oven. Katsuki can’t help but grin slightly at the idea of his teacher, usually so adamant about preaching the importance of being self-sufficient, doing all the hard shit himself and letting his daughter take credit for it.

“I bet he did,” Katsuki says, and takes the box from Eri. “Thanks, kid.”

She nods and moves like she’s about to walk away, then pauses. “I hope you feel better soon.”

Katsuki huffs a laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “Me, too.”

… And that’s that.

Until it's not.

“... Kaachan?”

Katsuki can’t even pretend that he’d been asleep, but he still can’t keep the irritation out of his voice when he looks over at the girl standing in the doorway. “Don’t call me that.” He sits up, blankets pooling around his waist, and glances at the clock on his nightstand. “What the Hell do you want, kid? It's two in the fuckin’ morning.”

He can barely understand Eri’s response. That isn’t really much of a surprise, seeing as his ears ring all the Goddamn time lately, but right now it's not because he can’t hear worth shit. Right now, it's because she’s speaking directly into the stuffed animal she’s hugging in her arms - a hot pink teddy bear he remembers winning at the arcade for Ashido - and the fur is muffling her words.

“... What?”

Eri refuses to look at him, but she at least speaks so that he can actually hear her. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

Katsuki blinks at her, wondering if he actually has managed to fall asleep, if he’s having a really ridiculous fever dream. There’s no logical reason as to why Eri is bothering him because of such a stupid reason, especially since she’s apparently supposed to be having a sleepover with Ashido right now. “Okay? I’m not sure how to help you with that. Go by yourself. You’re not a baby.”

Eri makes a wordless noise of protest and shakes her head. “I don’t want to go on my own!” She looks at Katsuki with pleading eyes, says, “I’m scared of the dark!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” Katsuki runs his hands through his hair. “Did you really come all this way to ask me to take you to the bathroom? Why didn’t you ask Pinky? I’m not getting out of bed, kid, I’m too tired.”

Eri sniffs, and Katsuki only has time to think, Oh, shit, before she shakes her head again, so hard that he’s afraid that she’ll break her own damn neck. “I’m scared of the dark,” she repeats, voice watery. “And I don’t want to turn on the lights because that’ll wake Mina up, and… and…” She hiccups, looking for all the world like she’s on the verge of tears, and Katsuki wonders how a fear could get to be so strong that it turned a usually brave kid into a fucking crybaby.

He sighs, relenting. “For the love of God,” he mutters, yanking open his bedside drawer and rummaging through photos of him and his friends, pens, pencils, and crumpled bills until his fingers close around what he’s looking for. 

He holds it up for Eri to see. “Look. A flashlight. C’mere.” She creeps over, tentative as someone approaching a sleeping beast, and he wedges it in her arms beside the stupid stuffed bear. “Use the damn light, then leave me alone and let me rest. Just make sure to give it back tomorrow, got it?”

Eri nods, blinking rapidly. “Thanks.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” Without another word, Eri scurries away, shutting the door softly behind her. 

Most nights, Katsuki doesn’t sleep at all. He has to rely on the perpetually uncapped bottle of pills on his nightstand to get any relief from his insomnia. He wants to pour the entire Goddamn thing down his throat on most days. They don’t really do a damn thing to help, seeing as he wakes up with a jolt whether he takes them or not, but it's the principle of the matter, he guesses. The idea that he can control this one part of his life.

It takes seven sleepless nights for him to give up. Seven sleepless nights for him to say fuck it, to yank open his door and stalk to the elevator, to push the button that’ll take him to the common room. 

It's late, he rationalizes, and so there’s probably not anyone crazy enough to be awake. Everyone is in bed, getting rest because they have class the next day - classes that Katsuki thus far has been exempt from attending, though he doesn’t know how long that’ll last - and no one is awake, there’s no way that anyone is stupid enough to be awake.

That argument dies in his throat the moment that he sees that the kitchen lights are on.

Shit, he thinks, and is just about to step back into the elevator when he hears a voice say, “Bakugou?”

Katsuki swallows, resists the urge to stay silent out of spite. “What.”

There’s a clanging noise, the sound of the refrigerator door being closed, and then Jirou of all people sticks her head out of the kitchen. “What do you mean, what?” She smiles, but it's thin and tight and wrong, like she’s not sure how she’s supposed to act around him, like she can’t remember. “Get in here. I’m making tea.”

“Tea?” he echoes, moving forward despite himself. “Since when do you drink tea, Ears?”

Jirou scoffs and turns on the kettle. Her hair is longer than it used to be, Katsuki notices. She’s been letting it grow out. He doesn’t know if it's intentional or if it's because she’s been too busy to cut it, but it looks nice. She says, reaching up to pull down a glass jar of tea leaves, “For a while, now. Momo got me -”

She cuts herself off when he steps into the light. 

He’d been prepared for her reaction, but that doesn’t make it sting any less. Her eyes gnaw into him like the teeth of some rabid animal, ripping away layers of skin to reveal what’s hidden underneath, and he purposefully turns his back to her, opening up the cabinet so that he can get two cups.

Finally, awkwardly, Jirou continues. “So, yeah, like I said. Momo got me hooked.” 

Katsuki hums but otherwise doesn’t answer, not trusting himself to speak, and Jirou scrambles to fill the aching silence. 

She wasn’t like this before - it used to be that she would stay quiet until someone else spoke - and he wonders, now, if she’s scared of what might happen if she lets the air grow still. He wonders if it's his fault that she’s acting like this. He wonders, in the spaces of her words, her frantic efforts to say something, anything, if he’s done something wrong. 

She tells him about Yaoyorozu and she tells him about Kirishima, like she thinks that maybe he’s forgotten all about them in the time that he’s stayed holed up in his room. Maybe he has. She tells him about her parents and she tells him about her siblings, and she’s in the middle of a long, rambling story about how one time her brother tied a string around one of her loose teeth so that he could yank it out but he ended up yanking out the wrong one and there was blood everywhere and their mother was pissed -

He says, barely audible, “I like your hair.” Because he finds that it's easier, now, to say that kind of stuff out loud. Because his heart could stop at any moment, nothing is guaranteed, and he should say what needs to while he still can. 

Jirou chokes on whatever she was about to say next, coughs. Glances at him, wide-eyed, and then stares down at the infuser she’s shaking the leaves into. He looks at her hands and realizes that they’re trembling. He’s pretty sure that they didn’t do that before. He wonders how many things he’s forgotten, how many details and memories have slipped through the cracks. 

“Thanks,” Jirou says, and Katsuki can see the way her jaw is clenched. “I haven’t had long hair since middle school. Thought that now was as good a time as any to give it another shot.”

Katsuki blinks. “You had long hair in middle school?”

“Yeah. Mostly to spite my brother.” The kettle starts to scream and she flinches away from the noise, and Katsuki reaches over and turns off the heat. “Thanks. Anyways, like I was saying, my brother was a jackass when I was younger. When I was like, six - seven? - he chased me down with all his friends and chopped off my hair.” She huffs a laugh, bitterly amused. “Our mom beat his ass for that.”

Katsuki frowns at her, eyebrows furrowed. “Why’d he do that?”

Jirou shrugs in a way that’s far too casual to be anything but forced. She pours water into the cups that Katsuki pulled down, puts an infuser in each. He wonders if she knew that he was coming. “I don’t know why that bastard does anything,” she says. “Besides, it wasn’t even a big deal. His knife nicked me a little bit, but that’s about all.”

“He cut you?”

“Not badly.” She reaches a hand behind her head and grabs her hair, lifting it to reveal a thin white scar at the nape of her neck. “I was more upset about him ruining my aesthetic, honestly.” And then she gives herself a shake, like she’s forcing her mind back on track, and grabs both cups. She brings them to the common room and Katsuki trails behind, useless save for the fact that he’s the one who turns on the lights, and they sit down on the couch. Jirou takes a sip of her tea, wincing when it burns her mouth, and then looks at him and says, “So, what have you been up to?”

Katsuki doesn’t answer for a long, long moment, just stares down at the carpet. What has he been up to? It's been a week since he came back to the dorms, but he hasn’t really done anything significant, anything worth mentioning. He’s covered up the mirror. He’s woken up screaming every single night. He’s spent an unholy amount of time typing out messages to his mother, to his friends, then deleting them, phone wobbly and unsteady in the fingers of only one hand. 

So, really, what has he achieved?

He swallows, avoids Jirou’s eyes when he says, “Well, Eri visited me.”

Jirou hums under her breath, leans forward to set her cup down on the coffee table. “What for?” she asks, and he searches her voice for anything accusatory, anything malicious, and finds nothing.

“She made me cookies. Sugar cookies.” He swallows again, mouth suddenly dry. Those cookies have been sitting on his desk ever since the day the kid gave them to him, still wrapped up in that cat-patterned cloth and tied with a knot he didn’t even bother trying to fumble with. They’re a constant presence, demanding his attention, and he thanks God that Eri didn’t see them when she scampered into his room to get the flashlight.

“How’d they taste?”

“Don’t know. Haven’t tried them.”

Jirou hesitates, like she wants to scold him, but then all she says is, “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

There’s an awkward lull that expands and expands between Katsuki’s ribs, pressing against his heart. He flexes his fingers, curling and uncurling them, looks everywhere that isn’t Jirou. Finally, when he can’t take it anymore, he says, “She’s afraid of the dark.”

Jirou goes tense, like she’d forgotten that he was sitting beside her. “Who?”

“Eri.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah.” She glances over at him. “How’d you learn that?”

“She told me.”

To her credit, Jirou doesn’t question it any further than that. She just says, “Yeah, she is. Poor kid.” And then she pauses, like she’s gathering her strength and her words, and says, “Y’know what’s weird? I didn’t even notice that I was afraid of lightning until I met Denki a couple years back.”

“Sounds more like you’re afraid of being in his Quirk’s radius.”

“You know what? You’re probably right.”

They sit there in the common room in the middle of the night, drinking tea and talking about meaningless things, and so many things are still wrong with Katsuki’s life, but, for a few precious moments, he feels like everything is alright.

#whumptober2022 #no.15 #new scars #boku no hero academia #fic #bakugou katsuki #eri bnha #jirou kyouka #nitro whumptober 2022

[dr3amofagame]

Do you consider a possibility that c!Punz never betrayed c!Dream in the first place and whole "I'm sorry, Dream -- but you should have paid me more" thing was a facade and undercover for Punz? Like Dream said that Punz should not associated with him, so it was intentional-

staged disc finale theory my beloved !!! :D it’s definitely one of my favorite theories, though i’m still holding out (for now) as for believing super firmly in one direction or another (tho the staged finale is definitely the one i prefer for Many reasons, haha.) c!punz is so so fun no matter if the betrayal was intentional or not, but oh boyyyy if it was something planned ,,, man . 

*c!dream voice, after quackity starts visiting*: the risk i took was calculated, but man am i bad at math. 

anyway c!punz and c!dream interactions make me soft as heck so have this !!

tw: implied torture, abuse, violence, blood, injuries, emotional distress, panicking, dehumanization, unhealthy coping mechanisms, unhealthy mindsets, illness, trauma, flashbacks, starvation mention, suicide mention, death mentions, dark content, dark imagery, prison arc/pandora’s vault themes, c!quackity critical/dark portrayal of c!quackity

Dream comes to in vague moments and flashes. 

There’s a hand brushing over his forehead, too gentle to be Quackity or the Warden, not Techno because Techno is Gone and he has Left and won’t come again, running through the sweat-soaked locks and pulling them back out of his forehead. He’s unbearably hot, shifting around on the ground, only barely registering it moving beneath him. Water, cool and clear, is tipped in between his lips, quenching his thirst and easing the dryness of his mouth. Someone speaks, voice low and rumbling, and even though he’s unable to make out the words, there’s something about the cadence of them and the specific rhythm in which they move and rise and dip that is bone-achingly familiar, enough to lull him into a fitful sleep. Through it all, there is always something, someone, lingering in the edges of his vision, a shadow standing near and watching over him; part of him remembers Quackity, remembers the Warden, and recoils in fright; another part of him remembers Techno, remembers the barest flashes of a life before obsidian and lava and pain and hell, and wants nothing more than to get closer. 

When the fog in his head finally clears away enough to think, the first coherent thought he has is oh fuck, I need to piss. 

Which, out of all possible things to think, is probably up there as one of the worst, and he’s sure that when his head feels a little less like it’s trying to actively kill him (ha, let it- it’s far from the first to try) the panic will settle in as it always does. As it is, he’s exhausted, and hungry, and he really really needs to pee- so he forces his eyes open to move away from where he’s probably still stuck in a puddle of dried blood in the middle of his cell.

The second coherent thought he has is this: this isn’t Pandora. 

The realization has him thoroughly awake, eyes snapping open out of his previous fatigue to take in his surroundings, feet kicking out to the weight on top of them that he hadn’t even noticed was there, panicking against his restraints that end up not being restraints at all, giving way easily under his thrashing and resolving to what appears to be a thick blanket when he has the mind to look. With the covers gone off of whatever he’s lying on (a bed?) he’s suddenly, unbearably cold - the prison has always been hot, the lava baking into him and leaving his skin sticky with sweat, and he thinks that the room he’s in is probably not meant to feel like a fucking freezer, but after months of being one wrong step away from heatstroke, anything cooler than the goddamn Nether feels like literal ice against his skin. The room is wooden and cozy and oddly familiar, an open door leading to what appears to be a bathroom and a closed one going who knows where, window panes built into the opposite wall to let the sunlight in. It’s a nice room, all things considered, and Dream fucking hates it. 

He pulls himself to his feet, cursing at the wobbly edge to his stance when he finally manages to stand, his vision wavering dangerously in time to the spinning of his head. His eyes flick between the two doors - he still needs to go to the bathroom, and using it now will lessen the amount of things to get in the way of his escape in the future - but at the same time, there's no knowing when people will come to (hurt him, beat him, starve him, punish him, leaving him bruised and bleeding and half-dead on the floor just as he deserves) him and he needs all the time he can get to get the hell away. In the end, he slinks into the bathroom, ignoring the thudding in his chest as he does so - at the very least, the cabinets in the thing might provide him with some manner of a weapon. 

He’s only just past the door on the way out - a fucking broomstick in his hand because it’s all he could find - when his ears catch on the sound of metal clicking against each other and his eyes fall on the knob of the other door shaking as someone makes their way in. All at once, panic slams into him - goddammit, he should’ve just run when he had the chance - and he directs quick, desperate glances at the window. Maybe, if he’s fast enough, he can book it out of there and disappear into the trees; it’ll hurt, but it’ll be better than getting caught. Anything would be better than getting caught-

 “Dream?” 

Dream blinks. All at once, the same feeling of getting the air punched out of him returns, but combined with something warm and floaty wrapping around his chest, something almost a little like relief - and hell, if that isn’t something he’s not felt for a while. 

“Punz?” 

Punz is standing in the doorway, hoodie rumpled, expression more than a little frazzled; Dream’s breath hitches at the sight of the sword strapped to his side, but their face holds none of the harsh edges and cold-dark-hard hatred that had characterized the Warden and Quackity’s visits, mouth slightly parted and eyes shining with nothing but what appears to be shock and concern. The sight of them, again, nearly has Dream dizzy, a swell of tangled, unexplainable emotion rising to the back of his throat as he sways on his feet. He hadn’t thought that he would see Punz again, he realizes, had never thought he’d see his stupid gold chain and his stupid outfit he never bothered changing, ever, or that same lopsided smirk and pale blue eyes- the last time he’d seen them, it was in that vault, their mouth twisted up in the act the two of them had decided on and eyes shimmering with unease and regret; as far as goodbyes went, it wasn’t the worst, not when Punz was one of the few to never leave him, not really, not when something ached in their expression other than the hatred that had colored all of the other expressionless faces watching him die. Months later, alone in Pandora, he must’ve grown resigned, or something, the repeated reminders that he would die alone and afraid and it would be nothing more than he deserved settling into his skin and against his bones; Punz’s expression twists, visible even across the room, and- oh. 

They must’ve thought the same thing, too.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Punz asks, finally, and Dream decides not to point out the way his voice cracks harshly in the middle, especially when the other man strides forward and starts to awkwardly herd him back in the direction of the bed - covers still thrown to the floor - in the middle of the room. Dream lets them, not replying because he doesn’t really know where to even begin describing the tangled knot of panic and shock that had strung his muscles tense when he woke up in a room he didn’t recognize, not knowing if he can really describe it all at all, trying his best not to flinch at the hands flitting in the corners of his vision as he falls back into a sitting position onto the bed. His fingers settle into the mattress, pressing into the bedsheets cautiously and marveling when they fall away under the pressure. Punz watches him, expression odd, gathers the blankets from the ground and presses them over and around him in a way that’s entirely awkward but does leave him warmer than he’d been before, before walking back on his heels with an odd expression that makes Dream’s insides twist. 

“You,” Punz says after a long second, voice wavering, “are a fucking idiot,” and it’s all the warning Dream gets before a white-and-black blur is rushing towards him, arms wrapping around his chest and his vision whites out in alarm and panic. When the pain doesn’t come, he comes back to his senses enough to realize that Punz’s arms are still wrapped around him, shoulders shaking as he holds him close but not painfully, careful not to pull too much against the places on his ribs and back that leave him gasping with small shocks of pain, head pressed against the crook of Dream’s neck and hair tickling his face. Dream can feel his heart hammering in his chest, but as the panic dies something warm and long-neglected stirs in the middle of his chest, and he melts forward with a quiet hum. This is- nice. Really, really nice. 

“What were you thinking?” Punz mutters, too quiet to really be directed at him, hands curling tighter into the folds of the hoodie - oh, he’s wearing one of those, not the same stiff, bloodstained material of the prison uniform that had chafed against his skin, another constant source of pain and discomfort of thousands in the hell that had been Pandora’s Vault  - on him, and Dream doesn’t really know what to do except sit there and blink dumbly, listening to the heartbeat of the person leaning against him rumbling against his ears. It’s oddly calming, has the pressure on his chest lightening enough to take a full breath, and then another, the warmth of someone leaning against him almost too much but not enough at the same time - his eyes burn, and he ignores them. 

“I-” he doesn’t really think that Punz was really asking a question, but just ignoring his question seems rude, too, and even despite the fuzzy warmth settling into his skin and into his bones from the pressure of Punz’s arms around his body and their head against his shoulder, he’s still unable to shake the anxiety of leaving a query unanswered, a constant murmur to listen obey do as you’re told or you’re going to regret it put on a damn good show or suffer the consequences remaining no matter how hard he tries to push it away. He wets his lips when his mouth feels too dry to keep speaking, eyes fluttering closed as he leans forward further, “I don’t know what you mean.” 

“You-” Punz cuts themselves off with a wet, incredulous-sounding laugh that has Dream jerking back despite himself, meeting their ice-cold eyes when they pull themselves back to look at him. He doesn’t really recognize the expression he wears, Dream realizes with a jolt, the way his lips are pressed together and the churning in his eyes, and his lungs seize in his chest. 

“Sir-”

If anything, Punz’s expression only seems to harden, and the warmth disappears as Dream looks into their eyes - cold, two polished shards of ice, frosted over pools of water in the middle of the tundra, flinty and sharp and brilliant blue. His hands shake as he pulls them back to his chest, trembling from the chill that’s made its home in his muscles and frozen them in place - sir sorry sir please don’t hurt me im sorry please I didn’t mean to

“Fuck, Dream,” he shakes his head, and only then does Dream see the slight wobble to their bottom lip, the waver to their words like they’re struggling to keep themselves together, “why didn’t you say anything?” 

 What?

You almost died, you know,” he keeps going, not meeting his eyes as they direct their gaze out the window, “Several times, honestly. Fucking hell- when Techno brought you out- I didn’t think you would survive. I didn’t think anyone could survive that.” 

Dream swallows. He doesn’t remember getting out, doesn’t really remember much at all if he’s being honest; there was the black of the cell, the heat of the lava, Techno promising to get him out before disappearing in a flash of purple, Quackity throwing him against the wall (Where the fuck did Techno go? You better have a fuckin’ answer, pal, if you want your death to be anything resemblin’ quick-) then nothing. Everything. His heart hammering in his chest and blood slick against his skin and the press of metal against his windpipe and pain, the only constant within it all, the only thing that made any goddamn sense when the room seemed to flip and turn and twist and his feelings knotted and frayed between anger-betrayal-distress-sadness-fear-grief, when reality swirled into a dizzying blur of colors and feelings and sounds carving themselves into the inside of his skull- then here. Dream flexes his hand experimentally, marveling at the feeling - the pain is almost gone. 

He’d forgotten how it felt, really, to live and not hurt. 

“Dream,” Punz calls again, voice low and worried, and Dream can’t help the way his head snaps up to meet their eyes and can’t help the flinch that twists his neck back when their frown deepens. It’d been a show, at least he tells himself, because Quackity would stop earlier if he screamed more, but- his hands tremble at his sides, twisted into the sheets of the bed, a near-constant litany of reminders and rules beating like they have a heart of their own in the back of his head. It was a show- he feels himself almost buckle, give in under the force of the stare leveled at him, and hates himself for how weak he feels, pinned under the eyes trained on his own. He’s not sure how much of a show it is anymore. 

“Dream,” Punz repeats, words even softer, and the ugly feeling of shame and anger twists inside Dream’s chest again. Punz- ever unflappable, deadly with almost any weapon and never letting anyone see him as anything but deliberately apathetic - is watching him with an expression so uncharacteristically and unbearably gentle that it makes his breath catch in his throat. “You could’ve died,” he says once again, and the look that paints his face is so terribly vulnerable, feelings pouring over like a cup overfilled, bubbling forward and bleeding from every corner, and Dream- can’t. He doesn’t know what to do in the face of such stark emotion, doesn’t know how how to handle the way his eyes burn and his heart throbs like an exposed nerve, the way everything yawns wide in the middle of his chest into void and emptiness and pain so deeply carved in the space within his ribs that he half-thinks he’s been hollowed out entirely.

“But I didn’t.” 

Punz pulls back, but Dream isn’t looking at him, is staring at the scarred surfaces of the backs of his hands and the knobs of his knuckles sticking out against the thinned-out skin and the yellowed nails he’s pushing against the blanket, the fourth and fifth ones of his right hand missing. They shake, no matter how long he looks at them and how hard he tries to make them stay still, and he can feel a voice whispering in the back of his mind, tone too familiar to ignore. Weak. 

“I didn’t die,” he says when Punz doesn’t reply, looking at his scarred hands, weak hands, broken hands. “So it’s okay. We can keep- we can keep going.”

“Dream-” their voice is a blade scraping against an anvil, nails scraping over his ribs, his hands clamping over his ears before he’s realized he’s moved and his brain screaming at him for doing so once he realizes that he has, “-what the fuck are you talking about?” 

Still, he hadn’t survived months of Quackity’s visits by bending over the second he was pushed, so he forces his tongue to move from where it’s fallen to the bottom of his mouth like lead, feels his eyes go steely even from under the way his vision has already begun to wobble. 

“It’s not over yet,” he continues, trying to keep his words even, “‘cause I didn’t die, so we’re not done. I gotta- we have to reevaluate, of course,” he can’t stop, because the second he stops talking is the second he falls apart, so he ignores the way that Punz stiffens and stills and doesn’t let anything stop the flow of words spilling out of his mouth, “because the vault and the prison- um, obviously didn’t go as planned, but it’s fine. Just a minor- um, minor inconvenience. A setback- but it’s not- it’s not unsalvageable- we just have to-”

“Are you kidding me?” Punz cuts him off with a sharp laugh, disbelieving and just on the wrong side of desperate, and the air in Dream’s lungs freezes into a solid block of ice in the middle of his chest, “you- you’ve got to be kidding me.” 

“Punz?”

Dream’s voice comes out small, himself shrinking back into the bed, keenly aware, suddenly, of how there is nowhere he can go to run - Punz doesn’t seem to notice that he’s spoken at all, one of his hands moving up to tug through his hair, which is - now that Dream is looking - fluffier and messier than he remembers, sticking up in all directions like they didn’t bother to smooth it down.

“You think this is fine? You think that because you didn’t fucking die, that this is all okay?” Punz’s voice rises in volume slowly, not loud enough to be a shout but enough to go hard and unyielding like a threat, and with each word every remnant of the vault comes crawling, clawing back up to the front of his head, a pounding reminder to play his role, put on a show, behave behave behave-

“Goddammit, Dream,” Punz startles him out of his own thoughts, looking straight into his eyes with their ice-blue ones, “have you seen yourself?”

 Have you seen yourself? Lying down in your own goddamn filth like a fucking mutt- prime, you disgust me. 

“Your ribs were basically shattered. Your legs had fractures on both sides, and your back was so fucking torn up that it looked like more blood than skin. You’ve been starved- enough for me to see every goddamn bone in your body, it feels like. Your throat was bruised to hell- I wasn’t sure if you were gonna be able to speak again, fuck, and like a day after we got here you got fucking pneumonia.” Punz’s breath hitches, “Your skin was a literal fucking oven- I thought you’d bake yourself from the inside out. You could’ve died- you should’ve died.”

 You should’ve died a hell of a long time ago, pal- should’ve saved us all the fucking trouble and offed yourself like Wilbur fucking Soot.

He flinches, and this, Punz seems to notice, eyes widening a fraction before they pitch their voce lower, clearly taking a few breaths to calm down and reaching forward to take one of Dream’s hands loosely in his own, thumb smoothing over the bumps of his knuckles. 

“You’re not fine,” he says after a long while, shaking his head. “Hell- I’m not fine. But we’re not doing anything like- like the vault or the prison again, dude. I told you they were shit ideas- fuck. We never should’ve done that.”

“It was worth it,” Dream butts in, because he can’t imagine a world where it wasn’t, can’t imagine a world where all of that was for nothing, “it was worth it-” 

“No it fucking wasn’t, are you out of your mind?” Punz replies immediately, voice overlapping over Dream’s own, “have you listened to a single thing I’ve said? You- look at you! How was that worth it?”

Dream shakes his head stubbornly, already feeling the way his jaw is trembling around the words he forces himself to speak. “The server- it was all for the server-”

“Fuck the server!” 

Punz seems startled by their own shout, drawing back at the same time Dream does, breathing ragged. He takes a few seconds to compose himself, bringing his hand to his face as Dream sits stock still, not daring to move, hardly daring to breathe. 

“Fuck the fucking server, okay?” Punz says, finally, voice cracking in the middle, “You lost two damn lives for this server. You got fucking tortured for fucking months for this shitstain of a server. Just- fuck them. I’m not watching you tear yourself to fucking shreds for this- not again. I can’t sit around and watch you fucking die again, Dream, I can’t drag you out bleeding out in my fucking arms again- fuck-” Punz shakes their head, and oh. They’re crying. 

“No more. Fuck the server. I’m done, Dream- we’re done with them.” 

Dream blinks, so thoroughly surprised that he thinks the shock knocked him straight out of the building panic attack, leaving nothing but a slight thrumming of anxiety still simmering beneath his skin. Almost instinctually, in a motion he doesn’t really remember but still has the muscle memory for, he opens his arms- and in a similar, near-unconscious response, Punz tumbles into his arms. 

He blinks, not moving his arms to curl around the other, feeling the weight of another person against his again and the sound of their breathing and relearning them both. This is- new, for both of them. Dream was never emotional, not before the prison, not that he wanted to be after it either- but Quackity always had a particular affinity for tearing him apart, shard by shard. And Punz- he’d never been like this, even back in the day, when things were easier and they didn’t bear the constant burden of netherite against their backs. They’d always been stoic, sharp, sarcastic, cool and dry in a way that chafed against Sapnap’s fire and always led to Dream laughing at them sooner or later. He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, feeling the heat behind his eyes finally sear too hot and boil over, tears squeezing through his closed eyes and falling down his face. 

“Okay,” he says, finally, and there’s nothing easy about the acquiescence, not when he had poured blood and sweat and the better half of himself into this place, salted the earth with his tears until no more would come and nothing else would grow. He thinks that he will have more to think and more to say and more to protest come the next days, that the binds between him and his goals have been weaved too deep with the fibers of his soul for him to tear them free without sacrificing what broken pieces of himself he has left, but all he can think right now is how fucking tired he is. He remembers Techno’s voice, going through myth after myth to pass time in the prison, and thinks with something like humor and something like grief - let someone else be Atlas for a day. The sky is too heavy right now. Punz’s arms tighten around his body, enough to remind him that they’re there but not enough to press at his still-healing ribs, and he thinks that they might understand. “Okay.” 

#tw torture #tw abuse #tw violence #tw blood #tw injuries #tw emotional distress #tw panic #tw dehumanization #tw unhealthy coping mechanism #tw unhealthy mindsets #tw illness #tw trauma #tw flashbacks #tw starvation #tw suicide #tw death #c!quackity critical #tw dark content #tw dark imagery #prison arc #pandora's vault #-> my writing #my writing :D #my asks !! #-> my asks #dreblr

[arrowflier]

hello i have a prompt ☺️; we know for a fact ian and mickey have to sleep close so im picturing them getting into a silly argument and one of them willingly goes to sleep on the couch and when they wake up from their restless sleep at like 1am the other is sleeping on the floor next to the couch, or wakes them up climbing onto the couch. you get it !!

This has already been done SO WELL by @southside-forever in Hold Me Now and just yesterday by @sunnyian here that I don't want to do something too similar, so I twisted it just a bit. Hope you don't mind!

When Ian gets home, he goes to the bedroom first.

He’s been keeping himself away for hours, at this point, and he’s desperate to see his husband.  He hadn’t really wanted to leave at all, but his mind had been racing all day, his body twitching right along with it.  He couldn’t keep still next to Mickey when they went to bed, and the other man had huffed at him the third time Ian’s knee had gotten him in the gut.

“Jesus Christ, Ian, stop fuckin’ movin’“ he had growled, shoving himself back to put some space between them.  “Will you just calm down already?”

His eyes had been cold and hard in the moonlight coming in around the curtains, and Ian had tried, he really had.  He had managed to lay still just long enough to Mickey to doze off, his light snores filling the room.  There was enough distance between them that for once, Ian couldn’t feel the vibrations.

Then he had the urge to move, again, so he slipped out of bed rather than wake his husband and carefully tiptoed out of the room.

He didn’t want to leave, but he didn’t want to bother Mickey, either.  So he walked right past the sofa, right past the kitchen, grabbed his coat from a hook by the front door and his shoes from against the wall, and headed out into the cool night.

He’d spent a while wandering around, at first.  Sat by the empty, quiet pool outside, watching the water move with the breeze.  Walked the edge of the property a few times.  Headed out into the Westside proper, past the young bar-goers and vendors that roamed the streets at night.

There was a time he might have enjoyed all of that.  He vaguely remembered it, even--wanting to be part of that life, one of the people that never slept, always out and about and having the time of their lives.

But that wasn’t him anymore.  His life was back in the apartment, sleeping peacefully in their bed.  

So he turned, and went home.

Now, looking into the bedroom, he thinks he should have stayed out longer.  Not for himself--there was nothing for him out there.  But for Mickey, who slept on without a care in the world, taking up the whole bed despite his short limbs, pillow smashed into his cheek where Ian’s chest would be any other night.  Mickey who was doing just fine without him there.

He shuts the door again quietly.  It’s not the place for him to be right now.  He goes to the living room and settles on the sofa instead, folding his long legs so that he fits.  He doesn’t bother with a blanket, or a pillow; he doesn’t expect to sleep anyway.  No, he just lies there.  Lies there and thinks of Mickey alone in the next room.

At some point, he finally drifts off.

--

When Ian wakes again, he’s surprised to find that enough time has passed that the shadows in the room have moved.

And that’s not all that moved: instead of in the bedroom, on their soft downy mattress, Mickey is here.  Wrapped in blankets, laying on the floor, with one hand raised to clutch at Ian’s bicep up on the sofa.

He’s sleeping, a mild frown marring his otherwise relaxed face, and Ian doesn’t know what’s happening here.

“Hey,” Ian says softly, sitting up.  Mickey’s hand falls from his arm and lands on the edge of the cushion, arm bent awkwardly.  He blinks awake slowly at the change.

“Hey,” he croaks out, and it makes Ian smile before he remembers why they’re here. 

“What are you doing out here?” he asks, then bites his lip as how needy he sounds.  “Thought you were mad at me,” he adds anyway, figuring the damage was done.

“Woke up and you weren’t there.  Not mad at you,” Mickey mumbles sleepily, patting around until his hand lands on Ian’s knee.  He squeezes once, gently, strokes the bone with his thumb.  His eyes are squinted and bleary, but he looks up at Ian from the floor the same way he always does: achingly sweet.

“The fuck were you thinkin’ that for?” he asks, and Ian doesn’t really have an answer.

“You seemed upset,” he whispers anyway, and Mickey hums, sitting up without letting go.

“Cause I was,” he answers simply, and Ian feels his heart drop before Mickey gives his leg another soft squeeze.  “Don’t like seein’ you all tense like that, man,” he finishes, licking dry lips.  “Like you’re not really there.”

It hurts, to hear it.  But Mickey isn’t wrong, either, even if they both wish he was. 

Still, it isn’t all that bad.  Ian is on a swing, sure, but they both know it.  They knew it well before tonight.  And he’s taking his meds, and keeping his schedule (aside from his late-night roaming); he has an appointment tomorrow with his counselor, and one next week with his doctor just in case.  It’s under control, as much as it can be, and they have to embrace that, too.

So Ian tries.

“I’m here now,” he offers, covering Mickey’s hand with his own.  Mickey flips his over to put them palm to sweaty palm, gripping just this side of too tight.

“Yeah,” Mickey acknowledges, with just the barest hint of a relieved smile.  “You are.”

Ian shifts on the sofa, pushing himself back into the worn cushions, and tugs on Mickey’s hand.  Mickey follows, leaving behind the tangle of blankets on the floor to settle against Ian chest to chest, his head tucked into Ian’s neck.  He’s practically falling off the edge, but Ian wraps a protective arm around him to keep him stable.

Stable, like Mickey helps keep him.

“Love you,” he whispers into Mickey’s soft hair, his breath so light the edges barely flutter.

“I know,” Mickey murmurs into the skin of his neck, and to Ian, it’s the best response he could get.

#i'm so tired it isn't funny you guys #i was out way past my bedtime last night and work today sucked as per usual #i had half a glass of wine and now i'm practically asleep #daily speedwrite #gallavich #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #hurt/comfort #kinda? #fanfic

[apollos-garden]

Accident

Word count: 1320

Summary: you cut your hand, flashback + panic attack ensues

A heavy bass fills your earbuds as you dump various vegetables onto the spacious kitchen counter. The Stark tower had a truly extravagant kitchen with oceans of counter space, a fridge stocked with every possible ingredient, and two ovens. Coming from a tiny NYC apartment where you sometimes had to chop things on the floor for lack of space, you intended to take full advantage of  every single square inch. 

Turning the burner on to heat oil pooled on the bottom of a large pot you found, you rinse a stalk of celery and dice it. Once the oil started to simmer, you poured the celery in along with a few diced carrots, garlic, and onion. Turning to the sink, you rinsed your hands and was about to move to the spices when you felt two hands suddenly wrap around your waist. You jump and rip your earbuds out, turning to see Bucky. “Jesus!” 

He grinned. “No, it’s me.” You sighed at the horrendous pun and swatted him halfheartedly with the towel tucked into the side of your jeans waistband. The bass of the song could still be heard tinnily pulsing through the mini speakers hung around your neck. “You know I can’t hear you coming with those in.” “I know. It’s cute when you jump.” Your eyebrow cocked up. “It’ll be less cute when I reflex-punch you one day.” 

Bucky moved over to the stove, breathing in. “What’s this? Smells good.” You finish toweling your hands off and join him, stirring the bottom. “It’s going to be vegetable soup. Come back in, oh, forty five minutes.” You tap the watch dial fastened to the inside of your wrist. “And no more jumpscares, please?” Bucky holds up his hands in an approximation of innocence as he backs away. “Promise!” 

Shaking your head, you turn back to the counter, grabbing the spice jars and moving to the counter. Thyme, pepper, salt, a bay leaf... hmm, maybe some paprika? You stir every powder in thoroughly, watching for clumps. Throwing in the rest of the vegetables and a good amount of broth, you lean back against the counter. That should be everything. 

You wash your hands and wipe down the cutting board, then reach for the knife and sponge. Noticing some unknown spots of something on the handle, you carefully hold the knife by the blunt side of the blade and scrub the handle too. Rinsing the handle under the water, you look out the window at twilit New York. 

From up here, the twinkling lights formed a mosaic of colors outlining the surrounding skyscrapers. Far off in the distance you could see the reflections of the river. Suddenly, you feel the knife slipping from your grasp. You mindlessly grab for the knife before you fully register what’s happening. And catch it you did- catch the blade right in the middle of your palm. A dull sting blooms up your arm as you blink at your hand, tap still running. Fumbling for the handle, you switch off the water and breathe deeply before gently lifting the knife up, setting it on the counter. 

The sting had gotten decidedly sharper and you fight back the familiar prick of tears. Then you made the mistake of looking down. Dark blood was pooling in the hollow of your curved palm. Fuck. You look back out the window and clench your fist, ignoring the sharp throb accompanying the action. It was dark enough to see your reflection in the glass, and you stared at the outline of your body as you try to keep the image of your bloody hand out of your head. 

You wrench your eyes shut, forcing yourself to breathe deeply. Against your best efforts, though, your mind dragged you back to the tundra forest you had tried so hard to leave forgotten in the past. Dimly, you are aware of yourself sinking down to kneel on the floor, but in your mind’s eye you could see perfectly the body of your friend motionless in the snow years ago. The gunshot wound had bled steadily despite the pressure of your shaking hands. Long after they were past the point of saving, you had knelt in the snow, staring at your blood soaked palms. 

The ringing in your ears grew louder as you mentally shake yourself, trying to pull yourself back to reality. Still, you kneel there like a statue, chest tightening painfully as tears leaked from your tightly shut eyes in silence. Over and over, you watch them crumple into the snow, leaving a pool of red that stained the knees of your pants. Their blood dripped from your cold hands. You couldn’t save them you couldn’t save them you couldn’t sa-

You flinch as a hand clamps onto your shoulder, shoving blindly in the direction it came from. Your hands hit against someone’s chest weakly. “Woah, hey, Y/N, what’s going on? Wait, what happened to your hand?” You swallow and take a shuddering breath. “It’s fine.” You heard Bucky shift and the floorboards creak through the ringing. His hand settled hesitantly on your back but you pushed it away gently. “Please, I- sorry.” 

You took another deep breath and forced your eyes open, focusing on the cabinets in front of you. How stupid, to freak out over a little bit of blood. You were an Avenger for god’s sake. You thought about standing up, but your muscles wouldn’t budge. Your vision blurred over with fresh tears. “I couldn’t,” you whisper hoarsely. Fabric rustled and you felt the weight of Bucky’s leather jacket drape over your shoulders. “Should I stay?” Bucky asked softly, crouching down to sit next to you. 

You nod silently, clean hand absentmindedly fisting the soft cotton lining as you fight the pull of the memory of crimson stained snow. Gingerly, you turn yourself around, resting your back against the cabinet door. Your heartbeat pounded too fast in your ears and throbbed rhythmically in your palm. Bucky broke your tense silence. “You’re breathing too shallow. Here.” 

He shifts forwards, moving to sit crosslegged in front of you, and pulls your good hand to rest against his chest. “Breathe with me.” Quietly, you inhale and exhale with the steady rise and fall of Bucky’s chest. It slowly became easier to focus on the warmth of Bucky’s hand over yours, the way his calluses felt against the back of your hand and the planes of his chest under his shirt. 

Eventually your breathing stabilizes. The relentless pull of your memories slackens and in the lull you become aware of how bone-achingly tired you feel. You swallow and wipe at your eyes, skin tacky with salt. A nagging feeling of shame starts to grow at the back of your mind and you shift your eyes to the floor. “I’m sorry that you, ah, had to see that,” you start to apologize, but you don’t really know where to take it. 

Bucky shakes his head. “No. You have nothing to be sorry for. I get them too.” He lifts your hand, examining the cut running across your palm. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” Standing, Bucky left, returning with a pack of cloth bandages. He carefully washes off the old blood with a damp towel and starts to wrap your hand with the gauze strip. You watch Bucky’s fingers fold the cloth precisely over the contours of your hand, his brows furrowed slightly in concentration. 

“Thank you.” It was strange to have someone near you after an attack like this. Usually, you rode through it alone, curled tightly into yourself in your bedroom or leaning against a supply closet wall at the train station. Never had you really considered that you could allow someone to see you like this, that it was even an option. But maybe, you thought to yourself, you could learn to let the right person in. It just might be better this way.

#bucky #bucky barnes #james barnes #bucky fluff #bucky angst #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes imagine #bucky imagine #bucky barnes h/c #hurt/comfort #h/c #bucky fanfic #avengers x reader #avengers x y/n

[star-going-supernova]

Sorry to ask this Star (not really) but how about another addition to that WIP list where, after the "leave" ending, or any ending, it's Freddy who finds Gregory sleeping in that box and not Vanny?

I was viscerally overcome with the Feels the second I read this ask.

Content to Dream

Gregory had barely made it through the front doors of the pizzaplex when regret chilled Freddy’s circuits. He watched the boy, unnaturally still as logic fought with emotions. Watched him turn and wave through the glass, such a small, hesitant, sad movement. Watched the way his shoulders slumped the slightest bit and his smile stayed dim. Watched him turn and run off, returning to the world where he belonged.

It was for the best, Freddy reminded himself. It was how it had to be. Children went home at the end of the day; this was how it had always been.

He stood from where he had been crouched to say goodbye and took a jerky step back from the doors. He found, oddly enough, that he could not quite force himself to turn away.

Gregory would be safe out there. Safe from his friends’ odd behavior, from the bunny he had not been able to see—the bunny that left long cuts down Gregory’s arm when it got too close.

He remembered how Gregory had been surprised when Freddy offered to treat his injuries, how he had insisted he was fine. How Gregory had been so sure Vanessa meant him harm; how this did not seem to surprise him. He remembered the haphazardly placed bandaids covering scapes and cuts on his knees and face and elbows, the hunger that no amount of snacks seemed to satiate.

And he suddenly wondered if perhaps Gregory was no more safe out there than he was in here.

Logic demanded Freddy stay in the pizzaplex where he belonged. It demanded Gregory leave, alone.

As a human would say, his heart demanded otherwise. His emotions might be made of programs and code, but it did not make them any less real.

Freddy pushed through the doors and stepped outside for the first time in his life.

• • •

The sun had just barely risen, but Gregory was already too tired to make it back to the makeshift shelter he’d constructed. It was blocks and blocks away, and he’d done enough running for the night.

Finding a box big enough to fit him wasn’t hard—he was a small kid, which served him well more often than not.

(Chest cavities, vents, strollers, bins—hiding places adults couldn’t have used.)

He tucked the box into the shadows of an alleyway, then curled up inside. An early-morning chill settled deep into his bones, but he’d gotten good at ignoring physical discomforts like that. It helped that, for once, his stomach wasn’t achingly empty.

It took no effort at all to start drifting off, too tired to be wary, too used to the city sounds to be bothered.

Somewhere between waking and dreaming, he thought he heard familiar clunking footsteps. A heaviness weighed down his heart, reminded of things he couldn’t have. But that wasn’t new either. Exhaustion kept him quiet and still, even when the imagined footsteps paused and grew closer.

When firm, gentle hands scooped him up, Gregory was content to keep dreaming.

“Oh, Gregory,” he heard, faint and soft and sad. “I am sorry.”

Sorry for what, he wondered, but even as sensations too real to be a dream tugged him closer to wakefulness, he fought against it, desperate to stay in the dark, where anything was possible.

But the swaying movement of walking, the security of being held against a machine-warmed chest—what if it was real? What if opening his eyes didn’t take it away? What if the dream didn't end?

“Freddy?” he whispered.

A hand raised to cradle the back of his head. “Yes, superstar,” Freddy said, and when Gregory peeked, he didn’t disappear.

“How—why’d you… you came after me,” Gregory said, a tiny bit dumbfounded. He couldn’t muster up the strength to straighten up from his slouch against Freddy’s chest.

Freddy chuckled. In the first rays of dawn, the metal of his body nearly appeared to glow around the edges. “I always have, have I not? I only needed to remember that.”

And Gregory hadn’t taken off the FazWatch. Even if he hadn’t asked for Freddy to find him… he still did. He still came, all on his own.

No one had ever done that before.

With a little aborted sob, Gregory leaned up to wrap his arms around Freddy’s neck, pressing his forehead against smooth metal. Freddy hugged him closer without hesitation.

Between desperate, hitched breaths, Gregory managed to ask, “Wh—are we going back to the pizzaplex?”

“Oh, superstar,” Freddy said, and Gregory sagged beneath the warmth of his fondness, “we are going home.”

#i answered a thing #anonymous #fnaf fic #fnaf security breach #star's stories #life and times of star